


Hermione Granger and That Damn Malfoy Boy

by Aurelia_21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Careers Have Issues, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hermione goes to law school, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Romantic Fluff, Searching, Slow Burn, also Australia, or their first boyfriend/girlfriend, why would everyone keep their first job out of school anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-01-16 10:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_21/pseuds/Aurelia_21
Summary: Hermione is back for an Eighth Year. She’s got a stellar career ahead of her, great friends, and she’s dating the love of her life, Ron Weasley. But she has never been able to restore her parents’ memories, something she regards as her greatest shame. So when Draco Malfoy says he might be able to do it using Dark Magic, how can she resist a spontaneous trip with him to Australia to give it a whirl?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists in the same timeline/world as my other one, Molly Weasley and the Ghost of Things Past. They cover some of the same events but can be read in any order or separately--the plots are different enough that they don't spoil each other. Except if you read that one you'll know Hermione and Draco get together in this one. But you knew that already. 
> 
> Sometimes I post illustrations on my tumblr. But only sometimes. https://aurelia-21.tumblr.com/  
> ________
> 
> I have about half of this fic already written--unfortunately that's the second half! So I will be posting a new installment (2-5 chapters) once a month, on the 1st of every month. I am actively writing this fic, and when I hit the point where I have a lot written I plan to start posting weekly. 
> 
> First chapter coming May 1st, 11am GMT!  
> Update: Next installment coming June 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming July 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming August 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming September 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming October 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming November 1st! -- update to that update: the November 1st update will be delayed to this weekend as my work schedule is cutting into my editing schedule :(  
> Update: November update has come, next installment coming December 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming January 1st!  
> Update: Next installment coming February 1st! Or sooner, depending on how slammed I am irl

She had thought she would be able to break the memory charm she had put on them. After all, hadn’t no less a reputed academic publication than _Dark Arts Defence Quarterly_ run a feature calling her the brightest witch of her generation?

But when Hermione had arrived in Australia, fresh off a twenty-two hour flight, and made her way to the boxy little house her parents had gotten for themselves out in the suburbs of Sydney, her knowledge had failed her.

She had tried to prime them with postcards, disguised to look like advertisements, featuring pictures Ron would help her take.

 _Does your child qualify for admission to an elite private university?_ One read, with a picture of her posing in front of a castle with a large book. 

Another: _Win a couple’s vacation to the Cayman Islands!_ She had wanted them to know what her boyfriend looked like, so she and Ron had posed in front of a tropical fern in the Gringotts antechamber.

Then, the one she had hoped would do the trick: _Seeking to reunite with a long-lost family member?_ She was at King’s Cross station in this one, looking wistfully at the brick wall between Platforms 9 and 10.

It was hanging on their fridge when they let her in the kitchen. She was a census agent, she said, here to answer a few questions.

“But the census took place two years ago,” they had said, looking confused.

“Yes, and were you satisfied with your experience?”

They had looked sad. There was no recognition in their eyes, but she would catch them staring at her, looking bereft and confused.

“Why do I feel so depressed, Wendell?” Her mother whispered to her father at one point. He shrugged, his own eyes a deep well of bereavement.

She had brought out her wand then, had cast the spell she had thought would work.

“What have you got there?” They asked, fearful. They still didn’t know who she was. “Don’t point that at us.”

She had tried her backup spell then, and her secondary backup spell after that, and all the way down the list to the spells she knew would never work. They just got angry, and her father yelled at her, and threw her out of the house and told her never to bother him or his wife ever again.

The last she saw of them was her mother tearing the advertisement off the fridge and plunging it into the trash, looking like she didn’t even know why she was doing it. Then her father shut the curtains on the living room window and she was out of their lives.


	2. Return to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eighth Year gets off to a rocky start.

Ron didn’t understand why Hermione wanted to come back to Hogwarts for an Eighth Year.

“Haven’t you had enough of studying?” He asked, wrinkling his nose at her. “I mean, you’ve been out there, you’ve seen the world, you’ve done great things! D’you really want to go back to a place where you can get a detention with Argus Filch?”

“I’ve never been in detention, Ronald,” she said, deigning to look at him over her copy of _Extremely Advanced Transfiguration._

He didn’t get it. How could she leave her degree unfinished, after all the work she had put into it? Leaving Hogwarts had been one of the biggest sacrifices she had ever made. It wasn’t in her nature to leave an assignment unfinished. And besides, she had been thinking seriously about attending Magical Law School, which was inflexible with its N.E.W.T. admissions requirement.

Harry could see her point as far as getting her N.E.W.T.s, but the Auror Department had already welcomed him with open arms. So when she stepped off the train in Hogsmeade, she looked around, wondering if she would have any friends at Hogwarts this year.

“Miss Granger?” She turned to see Professor Flitwick staring up at her with a clipboard. “The Headmistress would like a word with all the Eighth Years before the Sorting. You’ll find her in the chamber behind the dais, in the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, Professor,” she said, and then paused. It was awkward seeing someone she had fought alongside; he no longer felt so removed from her. But here he was, her professor again. “How are you doing?” She ventured.

“Quite all right.” Flitwick inclined his head. “And yourself?”

“Better,” said Hermione.

It wasn’t a lie. She had spent the summer after the war at the Weasley’s, with Harry and everyone else. He couldn’t bear to open up Grimmauld Place just yet. It had been a lively, rowdy sort of summer, and the noise and family were nearly enough to distract her from the fact that there was only one Weasley twin cracking jokes, and that her own parents still didn’t know who she was.

 

She was entering the castle now. It felt strange to walk into the Entrance Hall. It had been cleaned up for the new school year, but there were still patches of skylight visible high in the walls where the Death Eaters had blasted holes in the stonework.

She made her way through the Great Hall and into the antechamber. Slowly, the other returnees filed in. Most looked as unhappy and bereft as she felt.

She counted eleven. Herself, Hannah Abbott, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, three Muggleborn Ravenclaws, and three Muggleborn Hufflepuffs who hadn’t been allowed to attend last year. 

The sole Slytherin among them walked in last, took a look around, and sat in the corner by himself. Draco Malfoy.

She could feel his eyes on her, and she willed him to look away. She hadn’t seen him since she testified at his hearing, where he ultimately took a plea deal, and she had to admit her feelings when he looked at her were tangled. He had seemed so small in the courtroom––so genuinely bereft and contrite. She and Harry had wound up playing a decent role in getting the charges against him dropped. But looking at Malfoy now, his sleek hair shimmering in the torchlight as he awkwardly tried to avoid everyone’s eyes, she didn’t feel like she had yet let what he did go. She wanted nothing to do with him. How dare he show his face in the school his compatriots had helped destroy?

Some light footsteps sounded, and Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts, filed through the door and folded her hands solemnly. 

“Welcome, all of you,” she said, her wavering voice carrying clearly through the stone vault. “Welcome home. I wanted a moment to speak to you returning students before you see the emptiness of our tables and greet our newest arrivals, because all of you fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

There was some side-eyeing here, and Draco Malfoy shifted further into the corner. He had fought to help Harry at the end, yes; but judging by the look on Hannah Abbott’s face and the hardness in one of the Hufflepuff boy’s eyes no one here counted him as a comrade-at-arms. 

“I do mean all of you,” said McGonagall, folding her arms and shooting Abbott and Jeffries a quelling look. “I commend you for your bravery. And in recognition of your sacrifice, the Ministry and Hogwarts have decided to welcome you all back to complete your Seventh Year. This will be a difficult year. You will find yourselves missing much. You will miss fellow students, you will miss some of your professors, and of course there is the not-so-simple matter that you have all missed a great deal of schooling. You may find it difficult at first to catch up. But I would like to warn you that the Ministry and I have found it best that we keep our N.E.W.T. standards as high as ever: there is no need for you to be a pity class when you arrive at the Ministry for work.” 

At this, Hermione felt her heart warm a little and her pulse begin to quicken in the old familiar way. 

“You will not, however, be part of the Seventh Year class,” McGonagall continued. “Because there are so few of you, you will be living together in one of the old Teacher’s Lounges, which Professor Flitwick has helpfully renovated. It will be like your own House, though you will still sit with your Houses at mealtime.” She folded her hands together at her waist and peered at them through her spectacles. “Your acting prefects will be Miss Granger and Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Any questions?” 

“What’s he doing here?” Hannah demanded, jerking her finger at Draco, who looked up, startled.

“Mr. Malfoy provided the information necessary to convict half the Death Eaters currently in Azkaban,” said McGonagall curtly. “The Minister and I decided he is welcome back at Hogwarts to complete his education, same as the rest of you. Any other questions?” 

It looked like there might be, but then no one spoke up, so McGonagall released everyone back into the Great Hall in time for the Sorting. 

McGonagall had been right: It did feel empty. It was strange to look around the Great Hall and not see Harry or Ron, or any of the girls she had shared her dorm with for six years. 

“Hermione!” The last Weasley redhead rushed her from where she was sitting with the rest of the Quidditch team, engulfing her in a hug. “I started to think you’d changed your mind and gone back on the train.” 

Hermione laughed and sat down next to Ginny. “McGonagall just wanted a few words before the start of term.” 

“That’s right, you’re in my year now,” said Ginny.

“Not quite.” Hermione told her about the separate chambers. 

“Poor you.” Ginny frowned. “Although, it might be nice to get some peace from this lot.” She gestured down the noisy Gryffindor table. “So who all decided to come back?” 

“Well, Dean and Seamus,” said Hermione, gesturing. Ginny rolled her eyes in the direction of her ex-boyfriend. “Neville graduated already, of course. Hannah’s back. A couple more Hufflepuffs, a couple of Ravenclaws. And then there’s…” she rolled her eyes and jerked a thumb in the direction of the Slytherin table, where Draco was sitting alone at the far end. The other Slytherins seemed to be giving him a wide berth. 

“Oh please no.” Ginny sucked in her breath. “C’mon. Why couldn’t he have...I dunno, sat in his manor and started collecting art, or whatever it is rich kids do after school?” 

Hermione laughed and snuck a glance at Draco. It turned out he was looking right at her; she hastily stared at her still-empty plate. 

“Hello, friends,” said a breezy voice behind them. They both turned to see Luna Lovegood, looking something like a hanging herb garden. She was draped in necklaces made of various root vegetables, and she unslung two of these from her shoulder now and draped them gently over each of their necks before taking a seat. “To ward off the Wrackspurts,” she said after a moment, when neither of them had spoken and Ginny was giving her new onion necklace a quick sniff. “The castle will be full of them. They follow death, you see.” Luna took a sip of the pumpkin juice she had brought over from the Ravenclaw table. 

Hermione glanced at Ginny, then laid a gentle hand on Luna’s arm. “How are you?” 

“Me?” Luna raised her eyebrows and smiled, but her smile was wan and she looked tired. “That’s very nice of you to ask, Hermione. You always were so thoughtful.” 

Hermione gave Luna’s arm a gentle squeeze, realizing she hadn’t answered the question. She knew some of the answer, of course. She had lived with the Weasleys over the summer, and she had made a couple of trips down the lane with Ginny, Ron, and Harry. Luna and her father were living in a cast-off tent now while they decided on how best to build their new house, but they had made rather an interesting hovel out of the thing. If Luna held any anger toward Xenophilius for betraying her friends during the war, she made no sign of it while they were there. Xenophilius was, of course, shifty-eyed and made himself scarce as soon as he saw Harry coming up the lane. 

McGonagall was bringing out the Sorting Hat now. Hermione looked to the entrance to see a small group of First Years, looking every inch scared little children who clung together in a little shuffling group. 

“They’re so small,” Ginny whispered. 

Hermione nodded, swallowing. The Sorting Hat began a soft, sad sort of song about honoring those lost, then sang out the names of every student and professor who had perished in the last year. It even mentioned Snape, and when it got to Fred there wasn’t a dry eye at the Gryffindor table. 

“Very well,” said McGonagall, striding forward and wiping her eyes with her sleeve, struggling to keep her voice together. “Whitman, Susie.” 

She began to call the First Years. The hat announced that Susie was a Slytherin. The little girl’s mouth fell open in something like fear and she whispered something to McGonagall, who nodded tersely over to the Slytherin table. Down at the end of the table opposite where Malfoy sat alone, the Seventh Year prefects rose to welcome her. A couple of students didn’t and received a terse scolding from their schoolmates. 

“I think she’s Muggleborn,” Ginny whispered to Hermione, watching. “The house hasn’t been fully Pureblood in about a century, of course, but they’ve not fully integrated yet.” 

Hermione nodded, making a mental note to reach out to the wispy little blonde girl. 

The Sorting went on, in an atmosphere of sad, strained calm. There was none of the boisterous hollering from previous years, no booing and only a little bit of cheering. When the feast was over, Hermione joined Justin Finch Fletchley for a quick meeting with Filch to obtain the directions and password to the Eighth Years’ new quarters. Then they led the little group out of the Great Hall and to the portrait of Julie D’Aubigny, which was located just one floor above the dungeons and whose occupant was always rushing off to duel other portraits. 

They filed into the old teacher’s lounge. Hermione looked about with interest, having always wondered where the professors lodged. This place seemed to consist of a large sitting chamber and two doors up a half flight of stairs. It had clearly had an extension charm placed throughout, judging by the slight bent curve in the wall that seemed to flicker if you looked too hard. 

Draco’s face, which had been looking a bit pinched all evening, broke into a grin. “It’s the old Xylomancy Master’s quarters!” 

“The _what?”_ Mandy, one of the returning Ravenclaws, spun, confused. “Is that the one that’s got to do with sticks?” 

Draco nodded happily. “It’s a branch of Divination. Used to be all the rage, in my Great-Grandfather’s time. Trelawney’s got her unit now, but it used to be an entire course. You take twigs, basically, and they can help you find people. It was used broadly in––” his face fell suddenly and he shut his mouth tight. 

“Muggle hunting,” Lisa Turpin finished for him, an ugly look on her face. “I learned all about that last year from the Carrows.” 

An awkward silence fell throughout the room. Draco dragged his fingertips along the top of one of the aging armchairs. 

“Well, that’s just lovely,” said Justin Finch-Fletchley, finally. “Guess I made the right call to take my family on a cruise, last year. Got to stay away from twigs if you’re a Muggle.” 

“That’s not really how it––” Draco started to mutter under his breath. 

“Let’s all see our rooms!” Seamus interrupted, leading the way to one of the unmarked doors at the back. The handle sizzled when he touched it and he yelped, yanking it back. “That’ll be the girls’ room, then.” 

Hermione trudged into the girl’s room a moment later, Lisa opening the door very carefully. It was a roundish room with sleek walls and six four poster beds with curtains. The colors of the curtains seemed to correspond to their houses, so Hermione went right to the only red-curtained bed while the Ravenclaw girls fought it out over the blue-curtained ones. Their trunks were already located by each bed. 

“Bit cramped, isn’t it?” Said Mandy, trying to squeeze open her trunk lid but knocking it against her blue curtains. “This extension charm is _straining._ You’d think they could find us somewhere a bit more spacious.” 

“Blame Malfoy,” Hannah spat, her face contorting into a grimace. “He’s the only reason we’re in here. Some of the other Slytherins whose families are still Pureblood believers might try something if he goes back.” 

Hermione paused in unpacking the stuffed Chudley Cannons bludger Ron had given her as a going away present and looked up in surprise. “Would they? That’s terrible!” 

“Wish they’d let him fend for himself,” Hannah muttered darkly. “Save us all the trouble of looking at his stupid face.” 

Hermione unpacked a bit, and then she and Justin went off to join the Prefects from other years for a quick meeting with McGonagall. After a stern lecture about inter-house integration, they returned to the new Common room to find their schoolmates lounging about. Hannah was complaining again about the size of the place and the apparent limits of the extension charms. 

Draco shrugged. “It’s no Room of Requirement, but––” 

“Oh, _you’re_ one to talk,” shot Hannah nastily, her arms crossed and rigid. “You should really think before you speak. Don’t you know your name’s all over the damage reports?” 

Hermione frowned, remembering the Prefect’s badge on her chest. “All right, that’s enough,” she said, pushing her way between them. She gave Hannah a stern look. “He might be a git, but he’s not a Death Eater.” 

Hannah scowled even more, but her face pinched up and she looked like she was holding back tears. “My mum’s dead because of people like you,” she said, glaring past Hermione at Draco. “Ever think of that?” 

“I’m sure he’s got very little else to think of,” said Hermione, putting a firm arm around her shoulders and angling her toward the other side of the room. She gave Draco a swift look instructing him to get lost, which he quickly obeyed. She blinked; she could have sworn he mouthed something like ‘thank you.’ She turned her attention back to Hannah. “But that doesn’t make him responsible for what happened to you.” 

Hannah shrugged off her arm. “What do you know?” She said bitterly, and Hermione realized how exhausted she seemed on some deep level. “You’ve still got your parents.” 

“Actually, I haven’t,” Hermione murmured, her own eyes starting to feel a bit irritated. “Excuse me.” She turned and followed Draco out of the portrait hole, heading for the library where she could find a little peace.


	3. Lost Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stood up for him once, and now Draco won't leave Hermione alone.

Potions was first on the Eighth year schedule. Hermione hadn’t had much of an opportunity to keep up with her Potions work while she was on the run or living with the Weasleys, so she stuffed a couple of muffins into her robes at breakfast and departed for the library first thing. After a bit of preliminary studying, she found her way down the classroom right on time. 

It seemed...brighter than she had remembered. Slughorn was perched at the front of the room, wearing a big nervous smile. New yellow-and-green calligraphed ingredients charts festooned a couple of the walls––that was probably the source of the perceived brightness. Hermione felt a sudden deep exhaustion come over her as she entered the room. All at once she wanted nothing to do with the front of it, so she slid into one of the empty tables near the middle back. The others filed in, and a moment later Draco Malfoy slid in next to her. 

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, confused. He had never taken a seat next to her before. 

He noticed her looking and put a smug look on his face. “Today’s a healing draught,” he said. “I looked it up on the schedule. Nasty bit of work. I reckon you and I are the only ones with the brains to pull it off.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“We can probably pull top marks, now that you haven’t got Longbottom or Weasley to slow you down. Split the points?” 

Something about the way he pronounced their names made her feel a pang of anger. She slammed her scroll and ink down on the desk a bit harshly. “I thought you had something against sitting next to Mudbloods.” 

That shut him up. He sputtered a bit, like he was trying to think of something to say. She snorted her derision and pulled out her brand new silver knife, a gift she’d bought herself that summer. 

It turned out Draco was right. This particular healing draught was supposed to be a balm for the troubled mind, and it was a delightfully tricky potion that was so engrossing Hermione almost forgot who was next to her. She took the lead on the potion brewing, snapping directions to him. He was quickly becoming flustered and red in its heat. 

“Got to really powder the dragon scales to give it its staying power,” she was saying, a bit ferociously, when a hand landed on her arm. She turned in shock. 

“No,” said Draco. “That’s a thickening agent. You’ll want to put in the eye of newt _first…”_ He took his hand off her arm and crushed the eyeball in front of him to demonstrate. 

“But that’s...that’s four lines down!” 

Draco shrugged. “Standard order of operations, though.” 

Hermione blew a frizzed hair out of her mouth and snuck a look at him. His hair had become all mussed and wild during their furious potion-making operation, and something about it gave her an odd feeling in her stomach. It was probably that he was an idiot. But he was right––she did remember the standard order of operations they had learned in Second Year, and according to that the eye of newt should come before the powdered ingredients. 

She quietly held off on the dragon scales until he put his in, and they were rewarded at the end of the lesson by two sparkling purple potions amid a sea of dull ones. 

“My, my,” said Slughorn, who was doing his rounds about the room, when he peered into their cauldrons. “You’ve both done brilliantly! If you don’t mind, I think everyone could use a taste…” He levitated their cauldrons to the front of the room and strode back. 

“The Mind’s Rest potion is a tricky beast to make, but a delight to drink,” he explained, leaning once more against his thick wooden desk. “Particularly when done well. All of you have created concoctions that ought to give a slight euphoria, but two of yours will impart a deep calm that will last you hours. I’d like to invite you all to take a sip as you leave, and for homework, report back to me on how it made you feel and the potential uses in Healing practice.” 

Hermione filed up after everyone to take a sip. It went down like carbonated honey, thick, sweet, and sparkling; she could feel it settling in a pleasant way. Transfiguration passed in a gentle haze; she couldn’t ever remember feeling less anxious in a class, even an N.E.W.T. level one. Before she knew it it was lunch time. 

Hermione found her way into the Great Hall and sat at the Gryffindor table. Hannah gave her a glance but then returned to her book; she had been studiously avoiding Hermione all morning. As Ginny was sitting with her Quidditch mates and Dean and Seamus seemed deep in conversation at the other end of the table, Hermione took a seat alone at the far end. It was no matter; she had plenty to do. She pulled out her Charms book and cracked it open, but the words seemed to wash into an amorphous puddle on the page in front of her. She sighed and set it down, resting her chin on her hand, wishing Ron or Harry were there. 

She felt the bench shift in weight as someone took a seat next to her, and she nearly fell off in shock when she looked up to see Draco Malfoy had taken a seat next to her. 

She glanced at his empty spot at the Slytherin table; the younger Slytherins were casting glances their way that could only be described as unfriendly. Draco noticed her looking at him and raised an eyebrow before taking a bite of his sandwich. 

“What are you doing here?” She demanded. 

Draco shrugged and swallowed. “Lovegood crossed tables already, didn’t she? I figured whatever Loony does, I can do too.” 

“So you’re going to start wearing radish earrings?” 

He made a noise and she realized he was laughing. 

She frowned. “I wouldn’t call her Loony if I were you and everyone knew where she’d been for the last half of term.” 

The grin froze right off Draco’s face. He looked down at his plate, lost his composure for a moment. “Of course.” 

Hermione nibbled at her own plate for a moment, but the bread felt tasteless in her mouth. She sighed, set it down; figured she might as well make conversation. “How are things?” 

Draco blinked in surprise. “Things are...things are okay, I guess.” 

She nodded, not looking at him. “Any thought as to what you’ll do after graduation?” 

He shrugged, and his eyes looked heavy. “I dunno. Law, banking, or something. Figure I’ve got to get there first.” 

Hermione nodded. “Yeah.” She drummed her fingernails on the oak table, decided she might as well ask the question that seemed to be on everyone’s minds. “Why did you come back?” 

Draco frowned. “Where else was I supposed to go?” 

Hermione took a sip of her pumpkin juice. “Right?” She set it back down. He was looking at her expectantly. “I mean, they all said to just get a job, but…” 

“You can’t just walk out before the N.E.W.T.s.” Draco wiped his fingers on his napkins. “Same. I know I’d want to try and sit them at some point if I didn’t now, so…” 

Hermione nodded vigorously, some of her appetite returning. She shoved the sandwich into her mouth. 

He watched her in a languid sort of way, more looking into space than taking her in. He reached down to pack up his bag. “Got to get to Charms if we want the good seats.” 

Hermione put a finger to her mouth, which was full. He waited while she swallowed. “Go on without me,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute. Going to finish this.” 

“You sure?” He stood there awkwardly a moment, but when she didn’t reply he walked out of the Great Hall, passing between the looks shot by the older Gryffindors and the suspicious ones from the younger Slytherins like it was a gauntlet.

* * *

“Nice taste in friends you have,” said Justin Finch-Fletchley the next night when they were doing their rounds. 

“He’s not––” Hermione started. 

Justin raised his eyebrow and she sighed. He had a point. Draco had saved her a seat in Charms, then sat next to her in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology, and escaped a group of hostile students by waiting for her outside Arithmancy. He’d also suggested they partner up on the Transfiguration essay and set up camp next to her in the new Common Room, drawing the quiet ire of the rest of its inhabitants. 

“It’s not me,” she said. “He’s very clingy. I guess because he hasn’t got his friends around anymore. Crabbe died, you know.” 

Justin sniffed. “Ah, yes. Top of the casualty list. I wept.” 

“Hey,” Hermione chided. “I was there. It was horrible.” 

“Sorry,” Justin mumbled. They walked along the torchlit halls in silence for a minute before he broke the silence. “Doesn’t it feel bizarre being here?” 

Hermione glanced at him sideways. The shadows on the wall behind him seemed to grow larger and almost ancient. “How do you mean?” 

“It felt like home,” said Justin, looking at his feet. He kicked his heels in front of him before each step. “Didn’t it? It always felt like home. The whole world did. But then, they don’t let you come back because of something you can’t control, and you find out you never belonged in the first place.” 

“That was just the Death Eaters,” said Hermione. “Not everybody.” 

“Was it?” Justin’s face was only half lit, and the shadows were dancing around his eyes. The sight made something in her stomach drop; he looked as bereft as she felt sometimes. “There sure were a lot of people who followed them.” 

Hermione cast about for answers. “But not all of them meant it. Some of them were just professing allegiance to protect their families. Some of them––” 

“Don’t,” said Justin harshly. “Just don’t.” 

She shut her mouth and they kept on walking. 

They finished their rounds in silence and walked back through the portrait hole to the new Common Room. It was past midnight and deserted, save for Draco, passed out on one of the couches with his Transfiguration essay for a pillow. 

Justin’s lip curled in distaste. “Exhibit A,” he said, before blowing out Draco’s candle and entering the boys’ room. 

Hermione stood there in the dark, alone save for the gentle sound of Draco’s breathing. She tried to blink back something in her eyes. Had it been foolish to come back to a place she had once loved so deeply? ...She tried to shove the thought out of her mind and went up to bed.


	4. The Wisdom of Ron Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and I have several more chapters coming for you today--hope you enjoy!

“Guess who won’t leave me alone,” said Hermione. 

“Who?” Ron took a large bite off the end of his sandwich. They had just accepted an offering of food from the House Elves in the kitchens and were headed off to find some cozy corner of the castle to enjoy a midnight picnic. Ron had got himself on the Castle Cleanup team of Aurors, and after a day spent trying to lift a hex off the broken roof in the Entrance Hall he and Hermione had decided to have some time to themselves. 

“Draco Malfoy,” said Hermione, spitting out the words. 

Ron stopped in his tracks. “No,” he said dramatically, but there was an amused glint in his eyes. “Tell me more.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically and obliged. “Well, no one wants him around this year, obviously. Not even the Slytherins.” 

“Glad they’ve finally got some sense knocked into them,” Ron said happily. 

“Right? Well, there’s lots of muttering things about him, acting like and saying that he’s very unwelcome here. And then Hannah went a bit far, and I stepped in and said stop it, he might be a git but he’s not a Death Eater, and now they’re all acting strange around _me!”_ Hermione’s voice rose to a panicked peak at the injustice of it all. 

“Shh, keep it down,” said Ron, casting a suspicious glance around. “Filch. Wait, I think we can go in here.” He pulled her into an empty classroom, grinned, and pulled her in for a big smacking kiss. 

Hermione pushed him away. “Wait, I’m not done yet.” 

Ron sat down, looking a little miffed.

“So now everyone’s blaming me or something,” she said heatedly, pacing in the front of the classroom. “Hannah won’t look at me, Justin’s being passive aggressive, and apparently Malfoy thinks I’m the only one who won’t hex him if he tries to sit next to me so he keeps doing it.” 

Ron furrowed his bushy eyebrows, trying to look engaged in her story. “That’s terrible. You know what would take your mind off it––” 

“It _is_ terrible!” Hermione spun around to face him, her hair bouncing about her. “Thank you! It’s all so passive aggressive I’ve been wondering a bit if I’m just imagining things or if I might be going crazy.” 

Ron shook his head. “Definitely not.” 

“Right?!” 

Ron nodded. “So annoying. So, do you want to, er...” 

“And another thing,” said Hermione, as it all came rushing back to her. “Everyone’s associating me with him now! I can’t have that when I’m a lawyer. I mean, no, I don’t think he’s a Death Eater anymore, but when I’m trying to get into Magical Law School and all I can’t have Ministry people thinking, ‘Oh, that’s Hermione Granger, she’s close with that Malfoy boy.’ I mean, these students have all got parents, right? The ones who aren’t Muggleborn; what if they’ve got a parent or something on the admissions team and they ask, ‘Hey, you went to school with her; what do you think of Hermione Granger?’” 

“That’s a good point, actually,” said Ron, nodding slowly. He crossed his arms. “What makes you think he isn’t a Death Eater, though? Hasn’t he still got that mark on his arm?” 

Hermione frowned. “Has he?” 

“Yeah.” Ron nodded fervently. “I mean, I dunno about you, but first thing I’d do on quitting the Death Eaters would be get rid of that thing.” He propped his elbows up on the table and leaned forward. “I mean, think about who we know who _didn’t_ get rid of it. Karkaroff, Snape, and Malfoy’s dad––they were all waiting for You Know Who to come back. Why would Malfoy leave his on there unless he’s secretly hoping You Know Who isn’t dead?” 

“I was thinking more that he seemed so repentant at his trial,” said Hermione, dragging her lip between her teeth. “I mean, totally done with it. Didn’t he seem so eager to distance himself?” 

“Yeah, eager enough to rat out all his friends,” Ron snorted. 

Hermione folded her arms more tightly. “Doesn’t that help you lot in the Auror Department?” 

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, still. Never can respect a traitor, even if they’re coming to your side.” 

Something about this bothered Hermione. “But what if they’re born into it, or something? What if they don’t land on the right side at first; what are they supposed to do then; just become true believers in whatever evil ideology all their friends are involved in?” 

Ron reached out so his fingertips were just touching her waist and pulled her close. “I mean, if he’d been smart he would have spotted the right side from the beginning.” 

“I dunno,” Hermione said, looking away. “Do we really know the situation? I mean, can we really judge someone for what they did when they were sixteen, if they were basically brainwashed into it from childhood?” 

“Sure we can,” said Ron, pulling her down to sit next to him and winding his arms around her. “You remember what a right pain he was, even from eleven.” He kissed her on the neck; she winced a little. He paused. “You know, I’m starting to see why everyone’s giving you a rough time. You’re too defensive of him and he’s not worth it. It’s almost like you like him or something.” 

“What! No,” said Hermione, incensed. She kissed him on the lips finally to prove him otherwise. “Besides, he’s got Pansy.” 

“True, he has got Pansy,” Ron murmured, kissing her back.

* * *

“He’s not got Pansy,” said Harry. It was the weekend and she’d apparated back to help him start cleaning up Grimmauld Place. 

“He’s not?” Hermione recoiled. “But weren’t they always––” 

“Parkinson? No.” Harry shook his head. “She dumped him during the war.”

“What? Why?” Hermione asked, alarmed.

“She’s a social climber.” Harry looked at her suspiciously. “She left him for a Death Eater in good standing once Voldemort put him and his family under house arrest, and now she’s dating an Auror.”

Hermione sat down on the dusty couch, shakily bringing her chin to rest on the wrist of her dragonskin glove. 

Harry peered at her. “You all right?” 

Hermione shook her head, languidly clutching a glass bottle of Skellington’s _Grime-B-Gone_ in her left hand. “It’s just the fumes.” 

Harry nodded dramatically. “I know, right? Want to get some air?” 

Hermione followed him gratefully out of the dragon-dung-scented cloud. They shed their cleaning supplies, tucked their wands into their jeans, and stepped out onto the Muggle sidewalk outside Grimmauld Place. There was a bright park across the way. 

Hermione took a deep breath, letting the crisp September air cleanse her lungs. They took a seat on a bench beneath a tree that still had its vivid summer leaves and sat in silence for a minute. 

“How’s Hogwarts?” Harry asked finally. 

Hermione let her head collapse onto his shoulder, and he let it stay there. “Lonely.” 

“Lonely. Ah.” Harry picked at something on the knee of his jeans. “That seems hard to imagine.” 

Hermione shrugged. “You two left quite a void.” 

They sat in silence a moment. She could feel him drawing breath, feel the cold of the wind on her face. There was a Muggle family playing with a kite a ways away, and a little girl ran by shrieking and the father caught her up in his arms and spun her around. Harry shifted in his seat. “So Malfoy’s driving you mad?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione shuddered and sat back up, drawing her feet onto the bench and clutching her arms around her knees. “You ever feel so...magnanimous at the trial, and then it’s just…?” 

Harry nodded. 

Hermione sighed. “For what it’s worth, I don’t _want_ Ron to be right. I want him to have renounced it; I don’t want any more real Death Eaters hanging around. I’d like to think most people didn’t really believe that stuff.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. He let out a heavy breath. “Hey, what does Ron know, though. You’ve got much better information than he has; he hasn’t seen Malfoy since the witness box on day two. For all we know, Malfoy’s got rid of the Dark Mark, sold Malfoy Manor, and started a scholarship fund for Muggleborns.” 

Hermione laughed. “I think we’d have heard if the Manor was up for sale.” 

Harry grinned. “Can you imagine? _Daily Prophet:_ ‘Family manor, for sale. Complete with its own torture dungeon.’ ” 

Hermione leaned into him gleefully. “ ‘We’ll knock off half the price if you’ll take all these dark artifacts off our hands.’ ” 

 

* * *

Hermione apparated back to Hogwarts as late on Sunday night as she could. She appeared outside the wrought iron gates and stood there a moment, feet rooted to the ground, not ready to go in yet. It had rained recently and the ground was springy and the gate was shining in the night. She took a deep breath to collect herself, getting ready to plunge back in. 

The wind whistled all around her and in her black robes she blended into the darkness as it tossed her hair gently about her. She could see the castle and it sent icy shivers down her spine; for a moment it was wreathed in flame and she swore she could hear voices on the wind, voices that were no longer there. She ducked her head down and kept a close eye on her wellies as she squelched her way all the way through the grounds. 

She didn’t look up until she was in the Entrance Hall and her footsteps were echoing, echoing a dampening sort of sucking noise from the mud, but she didn’t want to stop and vanish it off her boots because she could still hear the whispering voices in the corners and she just wanted to go to sleep and wake up and forget. She turned the torchlit corner and down a hall of dozing portraits who looked at her with stern eyebrows like she shouldn’t be up this late, which she shouldn’t, but Ron had stopped by after a work call and Harry had made them bad jam toasties and they had laughed and got their fingers all sticky together talking by the fireplace. She turned another corner and there were the statues, there was the entrance to the––

“Hermione?” 

She pulled up short. Draco stepped out from behind the statue of Isolde, just barely, still wreathed in shadows. He was dressed in an expensive-looking but thin blue cotton dressing gown and clutching a towel that looked like it might be monogrammed. 

“Malfoy?” She frowned; looked from him to the portrait hole a few yards away. “What are you doing out here? It’s––” 

“Justin won’t tell me the password,” he said. He looked exhausted. 

“How long…?” She had gotten the owl with the new password as soon as she had gotten to Grimmauld Place. Draco didn’t say anything. “Never mind.” She walked over to the portrait hole, Draco’s slippered feet slapping on the ground as he followed her. _“Apfelstrudel.”_

The portrait was in an opera mood, apparently; she had just changed into one of her more voluminous costumes and was busy stowing a sabre inside her petticoats. 

_“Apfelstrudel,”_ said Hermione again, a little more firmly this time. 

The portrait rolled her eyes like this was a waste of time and said something rude in French, but she swung open to let them in. Hermione let Draco go first. 

The Common Room was deserted, but a fire was still crackling in the corner, and someone must have made a call home recently because they’d left a bucket of Floo Powder out. Draco made a beeline across the carpet and up the short flight of stairs to the boys’ room. 

“Wait,” she said, and he paused in front of the door. Poor kid. He had seemed so helpless outside; he really didn’t deserve to be treated this way. It wasn’t like he was still some haughty young lord, excited to take his place in the Death Eater ranks. She sighed, exhaustion weighing heavily on her. “If that happens again, owl me, okay?” 

He inclined his head sharply, gratefully, and reached up to open the door, but it was stuck, so he raised his left hand against it to give it a good shove. As he did so the sleeve of his dressing gown fell away and she saw it––something ugly, hideous, _writhing;_ the breath went out of her like she’d been hit. 

The Dark Mark. He’d kept it. Just like Ron said. 

Malfoy got the door open and stepped in, gently closing it so as not to make any noise. 

Down below Hermione felt her face harden, felt her blood rush. She turned on her heel and threw more Floo Powder in the grate and knelt and stuck her head in the fire, spitting out the address for Grimmauld Place. 

Harry must have gone to bed but Ron was there, snoozing on the old armchair with the Quidditch section on his lap. He woke with a start to see her. 

“You were right,” she spat. “You were right about Malfoy. He’s still kept his mark.” 

A grin spread slowly across Ron’s face. “That _bastard.”_


	5. The Fight in the Library

The next morning Hermione found herself lying awake at five am, so she decided it was as good a time as any to get a jump start on law school. 

She made her way through the hazy halls, deserted at this hour but with weak rays of sunlight pushing in, feeling too wired to sleep anymore but at the same time her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. She found her way to the library and triumphantly cracked open a copy of _Magical Law 101_ ––then she woke up three hours later with her face smushed against the text, having drooled the chapter title into a blurry watermark. 

That sort of set the tone for her day. How was she going to make it through her law courses if she couldn’t even stay awake to study in _September,_ which wasn’t even exam season? 

Hermione caught the tail end of breakfast for some fuel, and she even had a small cup of coffee, but that still didn’t restore her to the usual temperament she needed to rely on. 

She nodded off through Charms and had to keep digging her fingernails into her skin to stay alert during Transfiguration. She tried to snatch a few minutes between them to study more law, but the words pooled together on the page and she found herself dozing off again. Furious, she entered lunch in high dudgeon. 

Hannah gave her a nasty look and Hermione snapped her book open and propped it in front of her on the table like a fortress. She _would_ get through half of it today, she absolutely would. 

She was finally about to turn the first page, teeth methodically grinding a chip that tasted like wet cardboard, when she felt Draco sit down next to her on the bench. Her blood pressure shot up and she didn’t deign to give him a second’s notice; she fixed her eyes on the page, marching resolutely word by word to the end. She turned it–– _finally._

She could hear him chewing next to her, rapidly, then slowly, in an awkward way, like he kept looking at her and thinking about talking. 

“What book is that?” He asked finally. 

“Magical law,” Hermione grunted, nearly at the end of paragraph one. 

He chewed a little more; nodded. “The Silberston series?” 

She raised her eyebrows, surprised, taking in even less of the next sentence. “Yeah, first volume of twelve.” 

He nodded; resumed his meal. “I know. I read them this summer. The one about derivatives and futures law is my favorite.” 

Her heart was pumping faster; she could feel it in her ears. She had no idea what that was; could barely take in this paragraph. “You read them all?” Her jaw felt tight. 

“Yeah. Well, I mean, I had a lot of free time before I went on trial. It was really sort of fun working with my barrister to prepare for that, actually. But I liked Luckinbill better than the Silberston collection. She gets into a lot more detail.” 

Hermione gritted her teeth, wondering who Luckinbill was. She pushed her plate away––her appetite had now completely fled. 

“Hermione!” She looked up to see Ginny coming toward them, looking rather determined. She wrapped Hermione in a perfunctory hug. “What are you doing here? You promised to help me with that thing, remember?” 

Hermione frowned. “What thing?” 

“The thing! Don’t you remember?” Ginny looked over at Draco and gave him a fake laugh. “She doesn’t remember! All night Friday, and––anyhow, come on, Hermione.” She tugged her arm. “Tutoring the Quidditch team, remember?” 

Draco furrowed his brow in doubt. Hermione cast one more glance at him and then let Ginny pull her to her feet, reaching to tuck Silberston under her arm. She climbed out from the bench and let Ginny pull her out of the Great Hall. 

“You’re welcome,” Ginny hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Boy, does he seem like a pill.” 

Hermione pulled away slightly. “I don’t remember promising to tutor the Quidditch team. Are you lot practicing too much or something?” 

Ginny laughed. “No, no, just needed an excuse to get you away from old Malodorous.” Her voice took on a conspiratorial flavor. “Ron told me to be sure and rescue you. Said he’s been giving you trouble.” 

“Right,” said Hermione, getting a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. She looked over her shoulder as they walked through the big double doors. Draco looked very small where she had left him, sitting all alone and slowly eating his chips. “Thanks, Ginny.” 

“Anytime.” Ginny was practically bouncing along. 

 

* * *

Seamus “rescued” her as well a bit later, also on instructions from Ron, so Hermione got to sit by him instead during Potions class. She appreciated the effort at first, but then Seamus caused a minor explosion that showered her in worm guts. Sputtering, she turned to see Draco smirking at her from the back of the room. 

Word seemed to have gotten around that Hermione did not like being constantly trailed by Draco, because Luna cornered her during dinner and spent the whole time floatily droning on about Spickletygibbots, ignoring the stares the other tables were casting at her new shimmering robes. 

Hermione had to admit it was nice to be accepted by the others again. Hannah even picked up a book she had dropped and handed it back to her. 

The only downside was it was evening now and she still hadn’t made any headway on studying Magical Law. Everyone was being rather boisterous in the Common Room––everyone except Draco, who seemed to have taken the hint and gone and cloistered himself in his room––so Hermione slipped out and headed down the chilly halls to the library. 

She crept into the library; took a deep breath that managed to make it most of the way down to her ribcage before anxiety pushed it back out. She passed a gaggle of First Years and headed for the diminutive Magical Law section. 

A single shelf of dusty tomes greeted her. Luckinbill, Luckinbill, Luckinbill...aha. _Loretta Luckinbill’s Epistle on Litigation, Volume I of II._ She pulled it off the shelf, yanked out a chair in front of the desk, took a seat on the threadbare cushion. Cracked it open. 

_My Dear Nomophilus,_ it began, spidery text marching across the page, _You wrote me requesting to hear in detail of my success in Griemubs v. Brocklehurst, whereby the court at my bidding successfully requisitioned a parcel of land from an esteemed goblin family, the location of which was most auspicious…._

Hermione blinked, feeling dizzy. The words swam before her and then straightened; she flipped through the other pages. It looked like there were no paragraph breaks throughout the entire book. She stuck her elbow on the desk and propped her chin up with her fist. 

Footsteps sounded behind her, startling her away from the page. Hermione looked up to see Draco, and a flash of anger surged through her. 

He dropped his bookbag and it hit the ground with a thud as he reached to pull out the seat next to her. “Luckinbill! Brilliant, isn’t she? Have you gotten to the part where she extorts a confession at a tea party?” 

“What?” She slammed the book shut and glared at him, feeling a sudden jolt of pain from the finger she had shut it on. “What do you want from me?” 

He stepped back involuntarily. “I just, I…” 

Her chest felt tight. She wrenched her eyes back to the book, trying to get the words on the page to make sense. “We’re not _friends,_ Malfoy. I don’t understand why you keep bothering me.” 

His eyebrows darted up, giving him a sad, surprised look that told her he hadn’t realized he was unwelcome. Damn it; why did it always come to this? It was like Cormac MacLaggen all over again. All she was was polite, and then these boys refused to leave her alone until at some point she had to hex them. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper, fumbling to get his book bag back on his shoulder. “I’ll go now.” 

Hermione shook her head and shut the book finally, exasperated, feeling the weight of old hurts bubbling up within her again. “Why would you think I would ever want to be your friend?” 

He shook his head, messing with the clasp. “I didn’t…” 

“I mean, what would make you think you could _ever_ be my friend?” She felt color rising in her cheeks. She felt awake, suddenly, and found herself standing—awake and furious at the injustice of it all. Her heart was pounding like she was in battle again. “Let’s recap, shall we?” 

She stepped to the side to cut off his exit, so he had his back to a shelf of books. He looked nervously around him—there was no one nearby, and even if there were, would anyone help the disgraced former Death Eater? Even the students in his own House didn’t like him anymore. 

Hermione folded her arms and began to tap her fingers to count off, starting to feel a grim satisfaction in the proceedings. “First, you called me a Mudblood.” 

He nodded, and darted his eyes around her, searching for an escape. 

“Second, you tormented me all through school. You and your friends were terrible to me! You made fun of my ancestry, how I looked, how I acted, who I was friends with. Well, you’re not so hot yourself, you little—” 

She stopped, searching out his face and body for something to pick on. He _was_ hot was the thing, and she hated it. She decided to move on. 

“Your family kidnapped me and my friends, and your aunt tortured me, and you didn’t lift a finger to help!” She yanked her sleeve up her arm and shoved her wrist in his face. The word was still there, in scarred letters that still stung sometimes no matter how much Murtlap Essence she soaked it in. “There it is! There’s what you think of me! Written in my own filthy blood, and you just let it happen!” 

He blinked, swallowed. He hit his bag on the desk and the strap slid off his shoulder. He looked terrified. “Granger—” 

“No!” She shrieked, snapping her arm back to her side. “You don’t get to ‘Granger’ me. You are a blood purist, and a bully, and a traitor—” she seized his left arm, nails digging into his skin, and pulled it into the light. He struggled to pull away, to release her grasp with his other hand, but she was faster and had surprise on her side. In a second she had it naked and exposed: the grinning skull, the snake still writhing. Her mouth curdled in distaste. She had forgotten how filthy the Mark was; how hideous. 

“You haven’t even tried to get rid of it, have you,” she whispered, tracing the back of a long fingernail across the Mark. She held him fast, her right hand over his pulse; she could feel his heart racing. 

“It won’t…” he whispered, but she cut him off, switched the direction of her finger, began to drag it back down his arm, fascinated by the angry red scratch she was leaving. She knew she was hurting him, but she didn’t know how to stop. She felt almost manic: her own heart was about to thump right out of her chest; it was like all the hurt of the war had risen around her like a cloud, but she could see clearly now that it was all the fault of one man, of this boy shivering in front of her, this weak, pathetic little—

She looked into his eyes to savor it, but his eyes were a world of pain and regret. She dropped his arm at once, stung, and took a step back. 

“There you have it,” she whispered. “You worthless, pathetic little bitch.” 

He couldn’t take his eyes off her—his chest heaving, his heart pounding; rooted to the ground. 

She stopped, her breath baited, waiting for him to yell back. To call her a Mudblood. To tell her she was filthy, unworthy of magic, no better than a Muggle and that Muggles were scum.

But he wasn’t saying anything. He was still looking at her, and the expression in his eyes hurt her something terrible. Panic rose around her. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” She shrieked then. “Haven’t you got anything to say, you coward?”

He jerked back as if stung; shook his sleeve so it fell to cover his wrist again and clutched it protectively. 

“No one’s going to forget your past,” she whispered. He looked at her and she read terror in his eyes. The words kept pushing out through her teeth like a venom she couldn’t control. “It’s written on your skin.” She stepped forward and took his left wrist again, but gently this time. She caressed the Mark with the back of her hand, momentarily surprised at how soft and warm his skin was. He shut his eyes; his breaths were coming deep but quick. 

She felt a sudden urge out of nowhere to kiss him, show him what it was like to mix himself with a Mudblood; had the sudden wild idea that he might kiss her back…

She shoved herself off him at once, stumbling back into the shelf behind her. 

“I hate you,” she spat. “You’re as bad as your father. All his swagger, all his magic, and at the end of the day they dragged him away wandless and weak.” She hadn’t been there––she didn’t know––but the hurt in his eyes when her words registered gave her a feeling of sordid satisfaction. “You’re nothing but a bully and a Death Eater and you’ll never be anything else. If it weren’t for what you and your people did I would still have my parents, and the Weasleys would still have Fred.” 

She realized then that her eyes were stinging. She angrily scrubbed away the tears that were pushing themselves onto her cheeks. Draco was still there, breathless, backed up against the desk, his skin as bloodless as she’d ever seen it and his eyes twitching to follow her every move. “What are you looking at?” 

He startled, then tried to speak, moved a hand––but something burst up within her, burst with the speed and power of a flash flood. She couldn’t take his face anymore, couldn’t take his stupid––his blond hair, his arms, his–– _“Avis, Oppugno!”_ she shrieked, her voice tearing out of her chest. 

A flock of angry black birds ripped from her wand; Draco dropped for cover and tried to bat them away, screaming bloody murder. Only, he wasn’t the only one screaming––Hermione turned to look, heard footsteps, started to flee; but she was too late. 

“What the–– _birds!! Spells!!_ In _my library!!”_ Madam Pince’s hands flew to her cheeks, which were flushing all the colors of the rainbow. A wave of her wand vanished all the birds swarming Draco, who stayed sitting on the floor, breathless and bloodied. _“Petrificus!”_ She neatly jinxed Hermione’s arms to her sides, then cast another spell to draw both her and Draco towards her against their will. She marched them both out of the library in silence to the flabbergasted stares of the First Years who had been watching. 

Hermione risked a sideways glance at Draco as Madam Pince pulled them along with her wand; his face was covered in tiny scratches and streaked with blood and he wasn’t looking at her. As soon as they were out of the library, Madam Pince slammed the door shut behind them. 

“Look what you did to my library!” She shrieked. Her pointed hat looked like it was about to fly off her head as she stomped her foot angrily. “Shelves, broken! Books harmed! Silence, disrupted! You are _banned,_ both of you, banned, I say, until you learn to behave yourselves and for the rest of your lives if I can enforce it!” 

Hermione winced, and a first pang of pure regret hit her. Madam Pince glared daggers at her as she lifted her wand and fired off some sort of nonverbal spell that sent sparks into the air. 

McGonagall came around the corner moments later, pulling up short when she saw who was before her. 

“Headmistress!” Madam Pince whirled around to face her. “I caught these students fighting—dueling—in _my library!_ The damage they have caused, if you will come take a look; the shelves knocked over, the books they’ve hurt…” 

McGonagall shook her head. “I can imagine it well enough,” she said tersely, her eyes fixed on Hermione and Malfoy. “Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, you will come to my office at once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little nervous about posting this one, because of how Hermione treats Draco, but I wanted to flip the script (usually I see him being cruel to her at the beginning). I think Hermione needs a wakeup call to realize she’s messed up too before she’ll ever really be able to see him for who he is.


	6. Cold Mercy

Madam Pince glared, breathing madly, stung at the lack of attention paid to her precious collection, but she waved her wand. Hermione felt the spell lift and her arms hung loose at her sides now. 

McGonagall turned and marched off down the hallway. Hermione and Malfoy followed her at a quick clip. Hermione was still bristling with righteous anger, though it was starting to dissipate around the edges. She looked at Malfoy again, who didn’t seem to see her. He looked...defeated, might be the best word for it. Hermione smirked to herself. 

They arrived in Dumbledore’s old office, which McGonagall had hardly bothered to redecorate. She took a seat behind her desk and knitted her fingers together, looking down her nose at them. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Her words hung sharp in the air. “Mr. Malfoy, I protected you. I stood up for you to the Wizengamot; I was on your side. And yet here you are, attacking my students.” 

Draco said nothing, breathing heavily, his expression distant. McGonagall looked from him to Hermione and seemed to take in the contrast between her clean, unhurt appearance and his bruised and bloodied one. She furrowed her brow. 

“Or is that what happened?” 

Draco made no indication of any sort. Hermione swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. 

“He’s been bothering me,” she burst out. “No one else will talk to him, and he keeps following me around, and he won’t leave me alone.” 

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” Hermione nodded, hesitantly, feeling her fortress of righteousness crumbling. “And Mr. Malfoy attacked you, then?” 

Hermione shook her head. “He didn’t protect me.” 

“From what?” McGonagall’s voice sounded sharp and almost icy. 

“During...the war,” Hermione said weakly, feeling color rising in her face. 

“I see.” McGonagall looked at her desk for a moment. “I should like to examine both of your wands.” 

Draco set his dully on the table, and after a second Hermione handed hers over as well. 

McGonagall waved her own wand over Hermione’s. _“Prior Incantato.”_

An echo of her previous spell came from the wand, a flock of ghostly birds that dove for Draco even in memory––he twitched automatically like he was about to shield his face. 

McGonagall wordlessly moved to examine Draco’s wand. A toothbrushing spell that must have come from earlier that day. She looked up at them. 

“Mr. Malfoy, please go to the Hospital Wing and have Madam Pomfrey clean you up. I’ll inform Madam Pince you are to be let back into the library anytime you like.” 

Draco nodded dully, saying nothing. He took his wand and walked out. McGonagall turned to look at Hermione. 

“How are you?” she asked, catching Hermione off guard. “Have a seat.” She conjured up a comfortable armchair. 

Hermione sank gingerly into it, her cheeks burning. 

“How is young Mr. Weasley?” 

“He’s fine,” she answered, caught off guard. “Doing well. He was here a couple of days ago, helping with the castle cleanup.”

McGonagall nodded. “Tea?” 

“No, thank you.” Hermione looked at her sideways, trying to figure out what she was thinking. 

McGonagall tapped her wand against a tiny kettle on her desk, engulfing it in blue flames to brew a cup for herself. “And how is Mr. Potter? Is he doing all right?” 

“He’s very well,” said Hermione, her shoulders slouching. “He’s already got his first promotion. He’s quite happy, I think.” 

McGonagall allowed a little smile to cross her lips. “I’m glad to hear it. Are your classes going okay?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione, wondering when she was going to demand answers about Malfoy. “I’m doing fine. It’s nice to be back here, learning again.” 

“But you’re frustrated.” McGonagall tipped a scoop of tea leaves into the pot. 

“How did you know?” Hermione looked up in surprise. 

“You’ve seen the world,” she said simply. “And you’ve been through quite a lot.” She looked at Hermione’s arm. “May I see your scar?” 

Hermione just looked at her. 

“I know about it,” she said, sensing her surprise. “I helped compile the _post mortem_ report on Bellatrix. May I have a look? Only if you’re comfortable with it, of course.” 

Hermione leveled her wrist onto the wood desk, not sure if she was comfortable with it or not. The letters burned softly in the candlelight. McGonagall read it but made no move to touch her. 

“It’s not a slur, you know,” she said gently, simply, after a moment. “Every witch and wizard worth anything these days is of mixed blood. My father was a Muggle, which makes me a Mudblood, too. Your friend Mr. Malfoy is as well; a few generations back one of his paternal ancestors married a Muggleborn. It’s something his family has tried desperately to hide.” 

Hermione looked up at her, not sure how to feel. 

“I can make it fade,” McGonagall offered after a moment. “Would you like that?” 

Hermione whispered a yes. McGonagall tapped her wand gently and whispered a spell; gold dust wrapped around her wrist and tiny crystals circled around, burnishing the wound and softening it until it no longer glowed an angry red. 

Hermione lifted her wrist when she was finished and admired it in the light; the word was still there but she had to look for it now. It was a soft white, barely sunk into her skin, almost like something she had chosen to put there. 

“I can’t vanish it for you,” said McGonagall gently. “Not all scars heal.” 

She sent her away from her office with no punishment. 

Hermione traipsed down the hall, feeling somehow like that was worse. McGonagall hadn’t reprimanded her; did that mean McGonagall was on her side or that she thought Hermione already knew her lesson? 

She looked down at her wrist and tried to summon up her angry feelings again, but the attempt was too deliberate. She should go study or something, but no more library...she found her feet carrying her up to her bed instead, and in a moment she had collapsed into her pillow and burst into tears. She pulled her arms and legs in, curling up in a tiny ball. 

She felt nauseous, like the room was too bright. Draco’s face swam before her: when he had pleaded with her when she was pressed up against him; the way he had refused to attack her and only ever cast a shield charm; how incredibly empty he had looked by the time McGonagall sent him away. She tried to push him back out of her mind’s eye, think of something, anything else, but even then it was still there, just shoved a layer down. 

She let her hair fall over her face and become wet with tears. What had she done? She wished McGonagall had given her some sort of punishment, something besides Madam Pince’s ban from the library; that she had scolded her or forced her to write lines or _something._ Somehow this awful mercy and the understanding that she was suffering from trying to process what she had been through was much, much worse.


	7. Death Warrant

Draco didn’t say a word to her the next day, or the day after that. He sat alone in class, dully mixing his potion with no help from a partner, getting the lowest possible marks on his charms assignments and not seeming to care at all. He sat by himself at the end of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, seeming impervious to everyone around him. 

Hermione surrounded herself with Ginny and Luna and tried to push him out of her mind, tried to ignore him whenever she saw him. He was leaving her alone now; wasn’t that what she had wanted? 

But every time she saw him, she felt hot and like her stomach became rock hard and kept falling. She wanted to disappear then, to fade into the background; she was relieved that she never caught him looking at her. She would catch glimpses of his hair as he would disappear into his room; he never lingered in the Common Room anymore. But he would leave books behind, scattering them everywhere like animal tracks, and long after midnight she would sneak out and read them. 

Being banned from the library turned out to be the most terrible punishment she had ever undergone. It wasn’t just her place of reference; it was her sanctuary, the place where she went to feel at peace. She wasn’t herself without it, but now even imagining herself in the library brought up feelings of shame. 

Ron had congratulated her. 

“My, Hermione,” he had said when she called him by Floo Network the next day. “I’m impressed. Jinxed him and everything, did you?”

She had smiled and accepted the compliment, but she then had ducked her head, feeling like her cheeks were on fire again. She had hurt someone. She had stooped to his level—no, below it, because he hadn’t tried to attack her at all. 

Changing the subject, she had asked Ron if he would mind bringing her a couple of titles she was missing, but he was too busy—his boss wanted him on a secret investigation in Brighton that weekend.

Luckily, Harry was free. He arrived on Sunday with an armload of books she had requested from Flourish & Blott’s. They took a trip back to the old Gryffindor Common Room, and found a seat in a quiet corner by the window. It was a beautiful day outside, so most of the students were frolicking on the grounds. 

“Harry, something happened,” Hermione said after a minute, once too much small talk had begun to weigh on her. He looked at her, concerned, and she told him what she had done in the library. 

“Wow,” he said when she was finished, shaking his head. “Poor Malfoy. First me slicing his chest open when he was just trying to use the loo, now you’ve gone and had him pecked half to death while he was just trying to study. All he needs now is for Ron to try and hex him while he’s asleep, and we’ll have successfully disrupted all his normal life activities.” 

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. “McGonagall didn’t punish me,” she said after a moment. “I sort of...wish she had.” 

“Of course she didn’t.” Harry looked at her seriously. “You’re an adult, and she knows you. She knows you’ll beat yourself up more than she could.” 

Hermione smiled slightly, then voiced the thought that had been haunting her. “Do you think I need to...apologize?” 

Harry leaned back and sighed heavily, looking out the window. “I mean, if you do, I probably should too. He and I have sort of...come to an understanding, I guess; but we’ve never actually apologized for what we’ve done to each other.” 

Hermione nodded. “I should, shouldn’t I?” 

“Yeah.” 

Hermione let out a long, low breath. “I just don’t feel like I can face him. Every time I see him I just feel so…” She shook her head and grimaced, her chest feeling tight again. 

“Hey, who says you have to apologize right now?” Harry looked back at her. “You’ve got ages. In the meantime, want to take a turn about the castle? I miss this place.” 

“Yeah,” said Hermione, feeling comforted. “And tell me about what’s going on with you and Ginny!” Harry and Ginny had finally gotten together over the summer, and according to a breathless account given by Ginny in the Entrance Hall the other morning their relationship was progressing very quickly. 

They walked out of the portrait hole together. “Why, what has she told you?” Harry asked, a nervous grin playing on his face. 

“She says you mentioned something involving a certain four-letter word,” said Hermione teasingly. 

“What letter does it start with?” 

“L.” 

“Ah, yes, that.” Harry grinned roguishly. “Here, let’s go down here.” He pulled her through a portrait and down a staircase to dodge a gaggle of curious First Years who looked like they might be about to recognize The Boy Who Saved The Wizarding World Twice. 

They trooped down the damp, dark staircase. “So?” Hermione pressed him, her eyes twinkling. “Have you fallen in love?” 

Harry nodded somberly. “Yeah. I think I know what love is, finally.” They stepped off the staircase and turned a corner into a hall, passing a flaming torch in the bracket. They were somewhere in the dungeons. She saw Harry’s eyes in the flickering light; he looked happy and content. 

“That’s wonderful,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “I’m so happy for you two.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry. “You know, I dunno how it feels to meet that person. Maybe like with you and Ron? But when I look at her, I just feel...I think she could be the one, you know?” 

Hermione squealed happily, and quickly racked her brains to remember when she had felt that way with Ron. 

“But anyway, yes, I love her. I love her very much. Oh, is that Potions?” They rounded another corner, coming across a door opposite another staircase. 

Hermione nodded. 

“Could we go in, actually? I forgot; I need a bezoar for my Auror kit but the one I ordered won’t be here for a couple more weeks. I might just nab one of these.” 

“Of course,” said Hermione, pushing open the door. “So things are getting pretty serious between you two?” 

They stepped into the empty Potions classroom. “Yeah, I’d say so,” said Harry, before he pulled up short. “What’s that?” 

Hermione followed his gaze to the potions master’s desk. There was a pair of feet sticking out from behind it, completely still. She traded a look with Harry, and they both hurried to the front, rounding the desk. 

“No!” Harry crouched beside the prone figure, looking at him anxiously. 

It took Hermione a second to realize who it was. The first thing she noticed was the sheer amount of blood; the second, the torn green robes. Then she looked up and saw the pale face, ashen and far too white for health, eyes shut, and she realized she was looking at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione fell to her knees where she stood, landing in the pool of blood spilling from his left arm. She anxiously examined it, gently touched his prone fingers, trying to think of a spell that would help. But his arm looked too damaged. It was torn to shreds; she couldn’t even see the Dark Mark for all the blood that was still gushing out. It was also smoking slightly. 

“Oh, Godric,” said Harry, moving toward Draco’s head. His pale blond hair was turning scarlet with blood; he must have hit his head on the floor when he fell. 

“Hello, Harry!” burbled a bright voice. Hermione turned to see Moaning Myrtle perched on top of a storage cabinet. 

“Myrtle!” Harry turned toward her, anxious. “What’s happened to him? Did you see?” 

“Ohhh, he’s been bleeding out for a while now,” said Myrtle happily. “Tried to get rid of that thing on his arm, he did, and his spell went _horribly_ wrong. He asked me to go get help and then he fainted.” She gave a high-pitched giggle. 

“Did you get help?” Harry asked sharply, bending down to examine him. He put an ear to Draco’s chest, straining to hear a heartbeat. Draco moaned softly and his forehead creased in pain, but he didn’t wake up. 

“No, no, no!” said Myrtle happily, zooming down to curl up on Draco’s chest. “Any minute now he’ll die, and I’ll finally have a boyfriend!” 

“Well, he’s not dead yet,” said Harry sharply, straightening up. “Hermione, we’ve got to get him to St. Mungo’s. Do you know a stretcher spell?” 

Hermione nodded numbly, feeling nothing. She conjured up a stretcher below Draco’s prone form, gently making sure it fit beneath his ruined arm without moving it, and levitated it. In moments the stretcher was red as well. 

“Do you know how to stop the bleeding?” Harry asked anxiously. 

Hermione shook her head. 

“Right, well, we haven’t got time to ask for help.” Harry led her out of the door; they hurried up out of the dungeons as quickly as they could, not speaking except for Harry to give directions on a faster route. 

They burst out into the sunny grounds. Draco gasped as the sun hit his face. Hermione hurried to look at him, but he looked already a deathly white in the bright sun. She quickened her pace and they reached the bottom of the grounds, ignoring calls from someone asking what was going on. 

“We’ve got to apparate,” said Harry, sounding scared. “I don’t know how else to get there. We haven’t got time.” 

Hermione nodded. “All three of us.” She reached beneath the stretcher under Draco’s head and put an arm around him, clasping his shoulder. Harry did the same with his feet. “On three.”


	8. St. Mungo's

They turned into nothingness and reappeared moments later on a London street, just outside the entrance to St. Mungo’s. The stretcher spell cut out the moment they reappeared, and they both sank under Draco’s full weight, straining to keep him off the ground. Harry cast a new spell this time and they gently led him into the hospital, where after one look from the admitting nurse he was immediately surrounded by a crowd of Healers. 

Hermione wiped her forehead with the inside of the wrist, trying to clear away the sliding sweat on her brow, but all she felt was the mad thumping of her pulse. She couldn’t take a full breath––it was all jagged and short, like if she paused enough to breath properly Draco would…. 

She felt Harry against her as he pushed her shoulder in the direction of the Healers. 

“After him,” he whispered, sounding as disoriented as she felt. 

There were a half dozen healers clustered around Draco now, so many that Hermione was only catching infrequent glimpses of his blood and his hair and his robes. His hair was scarlet now. 

“What happened? Head injury?” The Healer closest to them turned and demanded sharply. 

Hermione nodded. “I dunno, we just found him…” 

“So no witnesses?” 

“Moaning Myrtle said...he…” the words were like a flood in her mind and a clogged drainpipe in her mouth. Harry cut in over her. 

“He tried to blast something off his arm, and it was too harsh and he knocked his head on the floor, or something.” 

The Healer pursed her lips. “Tried to blast off what?” 

“The Dark Mark,” said Harry. “He’s a former Death Eater.” 

The Healer got a sour look on her face and something defensive swelled up in Hermione. 

“Don’t be like that!” She snapped. “He just wanted to get rid of it, because he regrets it, and––” 

“No,” the Healer snapped right back. “It’s just torn to shreds, is all; it’s going to be a very complicated stitching spell.” 

“Oh,” said Hermione, and quite suddenly she was crying. 

They’d come to an operating theater now and one of the head Healers pointed at Hermione. “Get his girlfriend out of here,” he said, jerking his finger at her. 

Harry pulled Hermione to the side where a row of chairs sat outside the operating theater and plonked her down, putting his arm around her. She wept into his shirt, feeling like she couldn’t breath or stop and she had no idea what to do with her life or how to go on or…. 

“Breathe, Hermione,” Harry whispered, his voice tickling her ear. 

She shook her head. “I can’t…” 

“C’mon, breathe.” 

She took a sharp, jagged breath, and it caught in her and she held it until her her head started to feel faint. 

“Another.” 

Harry kept at it until she was breathing deeply. The world seemed to settle into place around her. She tumbled even further into Harry’s arms, tears gushing once more. 

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I did this to him.” 

Harry seized her by the shoulders and sat her upright and she found herself looking into his bright hazel eyes. “You did not. You attacked him with a flock of conjured birds and you said some cruel things. He did this part to himself.” 

Hermione bit her lip and stared at the door to the operating theater. “But he needs to wake up, he needs to come back, I have to tell him I’m sorry…” 

Harry folded her in his arms once more. “You’ll get to. He’ll wake up. I promise. Or else I’ll eat my hat.” 

It was stupid, but she laughed a little. “You haven’t got a hat.” 

He squeezed her closer. “I’ll eat Ron’s.” 

“Ew.” 

* * *

It was hours before the surgery was finished. Hermione, utterly spent, drifted off at some point and woke up late at night to the rattle of a gurney. She peeked over Harry’s sleeve––he was still holding her––to see a shadowy group of figures wheeling a prone form out of the operating theater. She sat up at once, patted Harry awake. He was already awake. 

“Let’s go,” he whispered, pulling her to her feet. 

She nodded. “Is he…” 

Harry shook his head wordlessly. 

They traipsed down the hall after the Healers, the wheels of the gurney clattering on the tile floor, until the group turned into a room. 

“Give it a minute…” Harry whispered, holding Hermione back with his arm. 

The Healers left after a moment, shuffling away in a tired group. 

“Let’s go.” Harry and Hermione ducked into the room, which was a two-bed situation. Someone was slumbering behind curtains on the far end, and by the entrance lay Draco, cleaned and bandaged and lightly beginning to flutter his eyelashes. 

“Draco!” Hermione rushed to his bedside and knelt, caressing his good arm with one hand and cupping his hair with the other. “Draco, you’re alive, I’m so glad you’re okay…” 

He blinked, then shuddered violently, seeming both confused and alarmed to see her. He shivered like he was trying to get away from her, but he was too weak. 

Hermione realized with a pang that she was scaring him, and she withdrew her hands at once, settling them into her lap. Harry crossed by the bedside then and stood there, looking down. 

“How do you feel?” He asked. 

Draco shook his head, like he was trying to speak, but it seemed like it took some effort to get the words out. 

“No, no,” Hermione whispered, trying to shush him. “It’s okay; we’re sorry, I’m sorry…” 

“I tried to get rid of it,” Draco managed, his voice sounding strained and croaked. “I tried so hard, but you were right, it won’t ever go away…” he rolled his head away from her and squeezed his eyes tight. 

“What? No…” Hermione exclaimed, too loudly. “I’m wrong. I can’t believe you felt like you had to…” 

Draco shook his head, clenched his left fist angrily. 

Hermione looked to Harry for help, but he didn’t seem to know what to say any more than she did. She gently laid a finger on the sheets of the bed, not daring to get any closer. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t have hurt you.” 

“It’s all right,” Draco croaked, turning even further away from her until his face was mostly hidden in the pillow. “There’s no point.” 

Hermione looked at Harry with hollow eyes. “What have I done?” She whispered. Harry shook his head, looking as lost as she felt. 

A commotion sounded down the hallway––a high-pitched voice in haughty tones, lower panicked ones, the jangle of the lift gate being thrust shut. Hermione glanced at Harry and he motioned her to get away from the bedside. 

Draco’s mother burst through the door a moment later, her face peeking over the collar of an expensive coat, distorted with worry. 

Harry and Hermione instantly parted and got out of the way, allowing Narcissa to swoop in and embrace her son, kissing him repeatedly on the cheek. Draco winced and grimaced like she was pecking him. The two Aurors who were assigned to guard her took up positions on the inside of the door. 

“Draco, Draco, my darling, my baby boy!” she sobbed, examining him. “What’s happened? What have they done to you at that school?” 

“He’s done it to himself, Madam,” said the Healer, breathless from keeping up with Narcissa and her jailers. “He was apparently trying to remove the Dark Mark from his arm, but the spell went amiss. If these two hadn’t found him, he might have died.” 

Narcissa looked up at him, then at Harry and Hermione, hurt and astonished. “What?” She looked at Draco’s left arm, wrapped in blood stained bandages. She seemed suddenly very small. 

“We should go,” Harry whispered, giving Hermione a sharp tug on the arm. She followed him out, narrowly avoiding Narcissa’s gaze as it swept back over the room. 

“Died?” She repeated, quietly, and then all at once in a booming, glittering rage. “Died, _alone,_ and I had to get permission from the Minister himself before you saw fit to let me come and see him?!” 

It sounded like the Aurors and the Healer were trying to calm her. By then Harry and Hermione were in the lift. Harry shut the gate and pressed the button to go down. 

Hermione leaned against the back wall as the lift shuddered downwards, shutting Narcissa and her handlers out of earshot. Harry closed his eyes. “You going to be okay going back to Hogwarts by yourself?” 

Hermione bit her lip, then shook her head. It was no point lying to Harry. She hated the thought of going back there right now; felt all shaky and sick. 

Harry leaned his head against the wall of the lift. “Want to come back to the Burrow with me?” 

The Burrow sounded lovely this time of night, warm and cozy and Molly might hug her. Being around a family would be distracting. 

Hermione shook her head. “I have Potions in the morning…” 

“I’ll wake you up early,” said Harry firmly. He took her hand and led her out of the lift. “C’mon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! I’ll be posting another installment (3-5 chapters) on July 1st. I wish I could post more frequently, but I tend to write the chapters super out of order and with my new job I don’t have as much daily writing time as I used to. I wanted to pick a schedule I can reliably commit to, and I know I can have a nice chunk for y’all once a month :)


	9. Treacherous Mind

“Hermione!” 

Hermione fluttered her eyes open to see Ginny’s ceiling and Ron in bed with her. She shoved herself into a sitting position, startled. He was on top of the blankets, and he looked absolutely thrilled to be there. 

“They told me you were up here!” He exclaimed, his eyes shining. 

“What am I––” Hermione rubbed her eyes viciously. It looked like it was already light outside. “What time is it?” 

“Eight,” said Ron, running his hand along her forearm. 

“Eight!” Hermione’s eyes about popped out of her head. “I’ve got to get back to Hogwarts, I’ve got Potions at nine––” 

“What? No,” Ron frowned, still sitting in the way of her exit. “You’ve got plenty of time.” He leaned forward like he wanted to kiss her. 

Hermione kicked her way out of the blankets and ducked under his arm to freedom. She stumbled down the crooked stairs, Ron grumbling as he followed her. 

Harry looked up from a bowl of porridge as she entered the kitchen, his eyes bleary. 

“Harry,” she whispered, crossing to give him a hug, and in the same moment her spells and Draco’s eyes and Draco hurt and the hours in the waiting room and the way he’d winced and tried to get away when she touched him all flashed across her memory at once. She sat down with a dull thud. 

“Porridge, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley cheerily, putting a bowl in front of her. 

“Thanks,” Hermione murmured. She slopped a slow, heavy bite onto her spoon. 

Ron plopped down on the bench across from Harry and Hermione and stuck his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “So?” 

Harry swallowed his mouthful of porridge. “So, what?” 

“So, I wake up and Hermione’s here!” Ron’s eyes were still bright. Hermione thought it was flattering, technically, the way he was looking at her; but inside she just felt sick. 

Harry frowned as Mrs. Weasley bustled out to the garden for something and dropped his voice. “Malfoy’s in St. Mungo’s.” 

“What?” Ron practically scraped the bench across the floor in excitement. “Hermione, is this some follow-up to your mini duel?” 

Hermione shook her head and clutched it. 

“No. He sort of, well...he’s not doing so great,” Harry finished lamely. 

Ron stared at them like this was great news. “And?” 

_“And,_ we found him and we’re worried about him,” said Harry. He gave him a quick rundown of the circumstances while Hermione tried to shovel down enough porridge to hold her until lunch. 

“Blimey,” said Ron when Harry was finished. “See, I told Hermione he still had the Mark.” 

“No, you told me he was eagerly awaiting You-Know-Who’s return,” said Hermione sharply. 

Ron bobbed his head up and down. “Exactly!” 

Hermione set her hand down on the table a bit too hard, setting the bowls rattling. “That’s not the same thing. You told me he was evil, and I attacked him for it. Turns out he was sorry and I was his last hope or something.” 

Ron blinked like he still wasn’t getting it. 

Hermione groaned loudly. “I have to go. I have Potions.” 

“Skive off,” said Ron, staring longingly across the table with what she was pretty sure was his seductive face. “Come on. It’s your last year; you’re probably way ahead. Just skip one class, and we can go for a walk or something….” 

It was the “or something” that got to her. Potions or no, Hermione knew she did not want a quick snog in the broom shed right now. She rolled her eyes. “Maybe later.” 

* * *

Hermione made it back to the castle just in time for Potions. That day’s classes went by in a blur––which was troubling, because it meant she was having trouble focusing well enough to make good notes. She would have to redo the course readings later to make sure she was taking it all in. 

Every time she entered a classroom, she found herself on edge, looking around for Draco. She knew he wasn’t going to be there in the morning, but as the day swept on it became more and more likely he might have been released from St. Mungo’s––but still he wasn’t there. In Potions especially she kept trying to peek around the front of Slughorn’s desk where she had found him, worry coursing through her veins. 

Evening came and Hermione ensconced herself in her bed with the curtains closed. She forced herself through all the chapters she had already read that were assigned for that day, but it was no use; she could still barely concentrate. 

The next day was a drag more than a blur. She was anxious now for Draco to return, to make sure he was all right, but each time she thought she’d caught a glimpse of his blond hair it turned out to be a false alarm. She owled Harry around midday just to check. Draco had been conscious and able to speak when last they saw him, but maybe his injuries had been worse than they had appeared? 

Harry responded within a couple of hours (that was one thing she loved about Harry; he was at his Ministry desk a lot working on auror strategy proposals and was very swift with his correspondence. Ron was on too many traveling teams and could take days to return a quick note.) Harry dashed off a reply saying he didn’t know how Draco was but would ask someone to check. An hour later that note came, saying that Draco had returned to Malfoy Manor in stable health and would not be coming back to Hogwarts. 

Hermione sat down when she read it, plonking herself onto the nearest bench. Not coming back to Hogwarts? That was a Ron sort of move, or a Harry one. She remembered Draco’s face when she asked him about his future plans and he said he knew he’d always want his N.E.W.T.s. Had Draco just...given up? 

What did it mean to give up, anyway? She kept wrestling with the question all through dinner, which she ate by herself at the far corner of the Gryffindor table, deliberately alone. She felt anxiety buzz through her like electricity at the very thought. Giving up, for her, would mean taking some auror job. She’d be happy for a year or so, yes, but what future would there be? She’d only get to deal with criminals. She wouldn’t have a chance to help work on real, lasting policy change unless she decided to parlay her auror background into some sort of Wizarding Parliament run––and why not just start on a policy path? 

But there was more to it than that. Giving up would be...well, giving up would mean the Burrow. Or Grimmauld Place, more likely. 

Hermione shuddered, remembering the summer she had spent shut up in that dust trap. There would be memories at every turn: Sirius, Fred––no, she couldn’t do it. But where else could she go? The Leaky Cauldron? Commute from a Wizarding village? 

Wherever she went, Ron would go, at least. She was quite sure he would try to move in with her. They would probably get married, maybe in the summer, maybe at the shore by Bill and Fleur’s––she pushed herself violently up from the bench, her breathing ragged. Why did the thought make her feel sick? 

When she went back to the Eighth Year Common Room that night, she was greeted by a flurry of voices. It was unusual these days for her to be greeted, particularly by a shining, perky Hannah Abbott. 

“Is it true Draco’s not coming back? Did you really put him in St. Mungo’s because he insulted your blood status?” She was asking. 

Hermione flinched. “He didn’t insult my––” she started, rubbing her scarred wrist automatically. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley was in her face now, dragging her to the middle of the room and shoving a glass of firewhisky in her hand. “Good on you! I can finally stop sleeping with my wand now; I thought I was going to be on edge all term, having to sleep in the bed next to that––” 

“You shouldn’t sleep with your wand in the bed, Justin; you might blow your face off,” Hermione snapped. She took a sip of the firewhisky and peered around the room. The mood was more joyous than it had yet been. Seamus had pinned his Muggle football posters to one of the walls, and Mandy had sloughed off her robes to lounge in Muggle jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt. It felt good to see students taking pride in their Muggle heritage, and she sort of wished Draco were back to see it. That would show him. 

“Have you got anything Muggle, Hermione?” Mandy asked. She was fiddling with a CD player, but it kept malfunctioning. 

Hermione shook her head. “I haven’t. Electronics go haywire around magic, you know.” 

Mandy released the broken CD player onto her lap and muttered something about discrimination. 

“We ought to get beer,” Dean was telling Seamus now. “Real, proper Muggle beer. Get us all plastered.” 

Hermione took a seat on one of the chairs at the edge of the room. She took an unwilling sip of the firewhisky, trying to pin down the source of the uncomfortable feeling that was starting to take over her stomach. Seamus had always had his football posters, and many students wore jeans. But she’d never…. 

She grimaced, thinking of the presents her parents would give her from time to time, and how she’d surreptitiously conspire to leave them at home. The digital alarm clock, the walkie-talkie set, the tape recorder. The multicolored ballpoint pens and spiral bound notebooks that would have been perfect for creating study guides. She’d said something about electronics malfunctioning, and, not wanting to offend them, stuffed the presents into a dark corner of her closet where she could feel them glaring at her whenever she came home. 

The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to mark herself as a Muggleborn. She had envied Ron so much, with his shabby but completely magical upbringing. She hadn’t even wanted to imagine what sort of scoffing tone Draco Malfoy would adopt if he caught her with a set of Muggle pens. 

The memory of Draco got rid of the last shred of her desire to remain at this party. She drank down the rest of her firewhisky in one go, feeling it scorch her throat as it went down, and she stood up from the chair, slinging her bookbag around her once more. 

“Where are you going?” Justin demanded, advancing on her with the full bottle. “We’re about to start singing a capella, if Seamus can’t get us looped in to a Muggle radio station.” 

Hermione could see Seamus on the other side of the room, drawing intricate patterns with his wand across the dial of the Wizarding Wireless. “I have to go,” she muttered. “I left something in the library.” 

“The library? But weren’t you banned––”

Hermione was out of the portrait hole before Justin could finish. 

She marched through the drafty hallways, arms folded so tightly across her chest it was making her back ache. She wasn’t going to the library, of course; just to her real Common Room. They had given the Eighth Years passwords to their own houses, something about house cohesion, and she barked it out as she approached. The Fat Lady swung open obediently. 

Ginny was sitting by the fire, polishing her broomstick on top of her Transfiguration textbook. She looked up when Hermione entered, and Hermione’s stormy face must have told her everything she needed to know. Ginny quickly followed her to the farmost corner of the Common Room, where a couple of armchairs nestled in the window alcove. They sat. 

Ginny laid a gentle hand on Hermione’s wrist. “You okay?” 

Hermione shook her head, biting her lip. “I did a really shitty thing to Malfoy.” She gave her a brief overview of what had happened: the things she had said in the library, finding him in the Potions classroom; how he wasn’t coming back. 

Ginny waited until she had finished and then let out a breath, shaking her head slowly. “Yeah, you did.” 

Hermione swallowed painfully. “I feel awful about it. I mean, it’s just Malfoy, but when I saw him like...I just can’t take another...another one of us dying.” 

Ginny nodded grimly. 

“So...what now?” Hermione ventured, after a silence. 

Ginny shrugged. “I dunno.” 

Hermione contorted her face into a tight, painful frown and sank into the couch cushions, hugging her knees. “I’ve got to do _something._ I feel terrible.” 

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “What, so you’re going to march up and knock on the gate of Malfoy Manor? Ask yourself in for tea so you can have a productive discussion about war and justice and reconciliation?” 

Hermione snorted involuntarily. “No…” 

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t think you have to do anything, Hermione. I mean, I know you feel bad for losing your temper––” 

“I do!” Hermione interrupted her, bursting out of her couch cocoon in a fluster. “It’s not like me; I’m too old for that anymore. I can’t be just bottling things in until I hex people, it’s––it’s unprofessional, for one thing.” 

Ginny gestured for her to simmer down. “Yeah, but he’s not really any of our concern anymore, is he, Hermione. He’s going to go live his life doing whatever, probably something quiet and out of the way, which is a good thing, if you remember what a blight his father was on the government and the school board. And you’re going to do your own thing. You don’t need to reconcile any further. You’re not going to run into him again, probably ever.” 

“You’re right,” said Hermione, wondering why this felt like an unhappy thought and not a comforting one. Ginny had a point. She’d seen just about the last she would ever see of Draco Malfoy, and now she’d move on into the world of the Ministry and start to forget him as she focused on her own people. Like Ginny, and Ron when they were married––ugh, there was that sensation again. Why did the thought of being with her boyfriend forever make her feel so nauseous? 

Hermione sank back into the cushions, trying to get some comfort from clenching her arms tightly around her knees. “So, what’s going on in your life?” 

Ginny sat back on the couch, almost primly, and sighed. “Well, Harry’s driving me mad.” 

“What?” Hermione inclined her head, confused. “I thought you two were in love?” 

“We are,” said Ginny, throwing her arm over the bulky couch cushions and leaning back into them. “It’s just, sometimes, he acts like––well, you know how he gets.” 

Hermione shook her head. “How do you mean?” 

Ginny huffed. “It’s just, he really needs to drop the whole wisdom thing. ‘Oh, I died, and now I know everything, and I make my voice all calm and wisdom-y, blah blah blah.” 

Hermione burst out laughing. 

“It’s terrible!” Ginny burst, but there was some amusement creeping into her eyes. “I mean, I was just complaining about my hair, you know, for something to talk about, and he started lecturing me on ‘what really matters.’” 

“Oh, hair care definitely matters,” said Hermione, patting her own frizzed curls. 

“Thank you!” Said Ginny. “I hate how I look in braids, but it gets in my face when I’m flying if I leave it. So then I told him I’ll just cut it short if it doesn’t matter, and––” 

“Suddenly your hair mattered a lot,” said Hermione. 

Ginny nodded. “Exactly. God, the hypocrisy.” 

Hermione grinned. “That’s Harry.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Ginny pressed herself back into the cushions like she wanted them to swallow her whole. “But he really needs to stop trying to act all mature. I mean, it’s okay if he wants to vent about his job sometimes. He doesn’t have to just act all grateful for getting it. And I know it’s sort of mean for me to say, but I really don’t need a countdown from the number of days it’s been since his scar last hurt.” 

Hermione laughed. 

“I know he’s just making sure Voldemort’s well and dead, but I mean, I saw his corpse!” Ginny flung her hands out in an exasperated gesture. “I don’t need to think of it everyday. I’d like to just have a date where we talk about Quidditch, maybe complain about work and my classes, and we’re really just thinking about things we can do to each other while we’re snogging. But he always has to go and mention the war or his scar or start trying to comfort me about Fred or––I mean, it really just kills the mood.” 

Hermione grimaced. “That must be really difficult. Don’t you just want to forget?” 

Ginny looked pained. “Sometimes,” she said slowly. “I mean, I really, really don’t want to be rehashing my emotional pain on every dinner date.” 

“Yeah, you should tell him that,” Hermione put in. 

“I will, I will.” Ginny was dragging her fingernails along the couch fibers, slowly counting each seam. “But I don’t want to forget _everything._ Not all of it. I feel like sometimes you can’t forget if you don’t remember first, you know?” 

Hermione shook her head. Her mouth felt dry. She’d like to forget, like to wake up without a heavy invisible weight on her chest. If she couldn’t bring them back, maybe it would even be nice to forget her parents as thoroughly as they’d forgotten her… 

“But that’s enough of that!” Ginny exclaimed with a forced cheeriness, slamming her hands on the couch. “I’d been meaning to ask you something. I think you ought to tutor Luna. She could really benefit from it.” 

“Luna?” Hermione asked, momentarily startled out of her emotional funk. “Why Luna?” 

“She just looks really lost in class,” Ginny confided. “I mean, she usually looks lost, but this time it looks like she might actually be trying to pay attention.” 

Hermione almost laughed, but Ginny looked so serious. “Luna, concentrating?’ 

Ginny nodded. “She’s just not quite herself. I think the war is really weighing on her. And I don’t mean traditionally tutor her; she’ll get her N.E.W.T.s just fine. I mean sort of befriend her a little more. I’ve been trying to. I think she feels really lost, and she’s not blathering on about Nargles as much as she ought to.” 

“I can ask her to tutor me about Nargles, I suppose,” said Hermione. 

“That would be brilliant.” Ginny looked a little brighter now. “I think it would really help her.”


	10. Apology Entertained

Fall Term passed by in a busy, bleary sort of routine. The clouds were relentless; the cold ever more encroaching. 

Slughorn taught them a dozen new and difficult potions. McGonagall had them turning themselves into objects, finally. Gryffindor beat Slytherin in Quidditch, four hundred to nil, and Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care at all. 

Arithmancy was her favorite class by far. There was something about the numbered charts that made it impossible to think about anything else, so Hermione did a lot of them, even at breakfast. She badgered Luna about Nargles until the girl returned to her former carefree self, and in exchange Luna smuggled her all twelve volumes of Silberston from the library. Hermione forced herself through them, twice a read each, until she was fairly confident she could sit for a first term law exam in her sleep. 

Ron remarked in late November that she seemed unhappy. This was quite an observation for such an oblivious person, so it was a little startling. Hermione decided it was an accurate one, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. She shoved it aside and did more Arithmancy charts. 

Christmas break came and Hermione almost tried to go back to Australia. She could be her parents’ cleaning lady; she could sing them Christmas carols; she could do something, anything, to try and lift the dark cloud that had settled over her heart––but then it was the week of Christmas and here she was at the Burrow, having not even managed to put in a request for an international portkey. 

The Weasleys were as loud and boisterous as ever, but it was punctuated with excruciating pauses as people looked at one another, remembering Fred was gone. 

Ron was being more affectionate than ever. Hermione was running out of excuses to avoid snogging in the broom shed with him. She kept saying it was too cold, but she had given in once––a strange, awkward experience she had sworn she enjoyed but which had ended with Ron accusing her of being frigid and not seeming to want to snog him. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her––she must be sick or something. Surely she wanted to kiss her boyfriend, even if it was too crowded in the house and too chilly out of doors. 

Ron had taken to following her like a shadow, slipping his hand into hers when she was least expecting it. Then one of the older Weasleys would beam at the two of them, so innocently and happily she would bite her tongue before it could tell Ron off. Hermione loathed public displays of affection––she found them vulgar, uncouth, and embarrassing to participate in––but it seemed to be far too late to remind Ron of that again. And at any rate, hadn’t she told him that several times after they first got together? He ought to remember these things. 

Harry seemed deeply uncomfortable as well. It was strange, intruding on the Weasleys’ grief, even though everyone swore up and down that the two of them were welcome. Even Angelina looked like she felt out of place, and she had a much better claim on sharing this first Christmas. 

“Want to go to Grimmauld Place for the afternoon?” Harry whispered to her on Boxing Day. She was on the couch next to him, her hand laid unwillingly across Ron’s knee. Ron had a hold of it and was sitting far too close to her, but he was busily engaged in a lighthearted row with George and wasn’t paying her any further attention. 

“Grimmauld Place?” Hermione asked. 

Harry nodded. “Just for a bit.” 

“You, me, and Ron and Ginny?” 

Harry shook his head, biting his lip just a little. “You and me. I was only thinking a couple of hours. I mean, we can bring Ron if you really want him, but he seems to be having a lot of fun here––” 

Hermione pumped her head up and down. “You and me.” She side-eyed Ron’s grip on her right fingers. 

They slipped out after pudding. Harry unlocked the front door of Grimmauld Place with a tap of his wand and they stepped inside. 

It was as dusty and foreboding as ever, but Hermione took a deep breath, deeper than she had managed to take all week. There was so much space here. She stretched her arms across the hallway, where they barely grazed the wall. 

They seemed to have an unspoken agreement not to disrupt this magical quiet, because Harry didn’t say a word to her as they found their way down the hall to the old sitting room. Hermione shot a nonverbal dusting spell at the couch and a chair, then summoned books out of the beaded bag she still took everywhere. _Seminal Wizengamot Summons_ for her (a bit of light reading about the most famous court witnesses in Wizarding history), and a well-thumbed broom care manual for him. They sank into their respective chairs and quickly lost themselves in reading. 

An hour eked by, dripping away in comforting slowness. Kreacher passed by the open living room entrance once, muttering something angry about Master wanting tea and rousing Kreacher from his routine, but Harry just told him no tea was necessary and silence reigned supreme once more. 

Hermione was trying to make sense of a paragraph where a wandmaker’s testimony had somehow led the Wizengamot to throw out someone’s conviction for tax evasion when a knock sounded at the door. She ignored it, lowering her head closer to the book. So the party at fault was the auror department, for illegally examining the wand without a subpoena….

It came again. Someone was rapping on the door, insistently now. 

She exchanged glances with Harry, who sighed and shut his broom care manual. “Ron, probably,” he said, with the hint of a grimace. 

Hermione at first intended to let Harry get the door alone, but another glance at the spidery, close-set text convinced her she’d had enough of tax evasion for the moment. She set the book carefully open on the footrest and followed Harry down the narrow, dark hall to the front door. 

Harry hesitated just before he opened it, leaning back against the wall for a moment in exhaustion. Hermione laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We love Ron,” she said, more to herself than to him. Harry nodded, shrugged, and pulled open the door. 

It was dark outside now, and maybe that was why it took a second to recognize the figure who now stood before them. Or maybe she knew him at once, knew him by the sudden pounding of her heart and swooping sensation in her stomach, and it just took her eyes a moment to catch up to the rest of her body. 

He was wearing sleek, expensive black and green robes; his silver hair was perfectly coiffed. He looked both shocked to see them there, and simultaneously relieved; in his grey eyes shone a glint of something like fear. 

“Hermione,” Draco said, so intently it was almost a gasp, “You’re _wrong._ You think you know everything, but you’re _wrong.”_

She bristled at once, instinctively. 

Harry took a half step forward. “Now, listen here––” 

“No, you listen,” Draco said, straightening to his full height. He was shaking but there was strength in his eyes. “I can’t go back. I can’t––I can’t bring anybody back. But god, I wish I could. And if you don’t––if you think I wouldn’t––” He lifted his gaze and their eyes met and she held it, looking into his grey ones. Now she was shaky; it was like he was looking right into her. 

Then he broke away, looked down. Clenched his fist. “It won’t go away. It keeps...healing. But I’m not...I’m not _proud._ It’s like every day I see it and I have to remember whose body this is and what it’s done and what it...hasn’t done.” He looked into her eyes again and all she could think was to wonder why she had ever thought his eyes were cold. They weren’t cold; they were bright. “I should have intervened when my aunt hurt you. I should have stopped her, should have killed her, or...something. I think about that a lot.” In a rude flash he was gone. 

It took a second for his absence to register. Instead of his eyes there were just the dark pine trees swaying in the distance. 

She turned to look at Harry, who seemed just as caught off guard as her. “Did that just…” 

He nodded, his eyes almost fearful, then looked out in the empty night once more and ran his hand through his hair. 

They went back inside, sat down with the books again, but tax evasion seemed even less enthralling now than ever. Hermione lasted only a couple of minutes before she shut the book without even placing a bookmark and leaned back, staring at the crown moulding. 

Harry broke the silence first. He hadn’t even opened his broom care manual, and he was staring at the same spot on the ceiling. It wasn’t a very interesting spot. 

“Are we going to talk about that?” he said, finally, his tone unreadable. 

Hermione shrugged. “Are we?” Her voice sounded small amid the decaying grandeur of the room. 

Harry shifted in his seat. “Follow up to your confrontation from before?” 

“I guess.” Hermione looked at her knees instead, which were tucked under her. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but for some reason she felt the most alive that she had felt in months. 

“What do you think brought that on?” Harry mused. 

“I was wrong about him, and he needed me to hear it,” said Hermione simply, parroting Draco’s words without analysis. 

“So what are we going to do about it?” 

Hermione took the closed book off her lap, secured its pages shut by wrapping a long blue ribbon around it, and tipped it unceremoniously into the mouth of her beaded bag. It made a crashing noise as it hit something else in there––probably the campside cooking set she was still too nervous to get rid of. “Nothing. He told me, and now I know.” She felt warm inside for some reason, and she looked up at Harry, a smile taking over her face. “He regrets it. It’s eating him alive, Harry. He _regrets_ it.” 

Harry looked at her, evaluating her. “And does that make you feel better?” 

Hermione leaned back against the high armchair and shut her eyes. “Yes. Yes, it does.”


	11. Love and Its Malcontents

Draco still didn’t come back to Hogwarts. Hermione didn’t quite realize she had been expecting him to until Christmas break was well over and he was still gone. 

The mix of feelings that attacked her then bothered her, so she went for a brisk walk in the castle to try and sort them out. Why should she _want_ Draco to return? She was pretty sure she didn’t, actually. This was just guilt. And why did she even feel guilty still for what she had said to him? She had done far worse in the past––manipulating people, cursing people, hurting Death Eaters. 

But this was the only thing she’d done with real _malice,_ a little voice in the back of her head whispered. He was leaving the library. He’d got the message. You could have let him go. 

At any rate, the thought of him not studying at all while N.E.W.T. material got more and more complex was giving her secondhand stress. And she had bigger things to think about. 

Like a ministry career. Magical Law School applications were opening in just two months, and she was only on the third draft of her personal statement. 

Or her boyfriend. Ron wanted her to come away for the weekend. He kept pressuring her––he’d saved up a little money, he said; enough to rent a little place in the countryside for a couple of days. It would be just them. 

She wasn’t naive; she knew the unspoken request behind his words, knew what a weekend away alone between lovers meant. And maybe she really ought to give it to him. Ron certainly seemed to think so; had said as much a couple of times, saying he was ready and was she. She’d dithered then, a too-enthusiastic “of course I’d like to!” followed by a “but not yet” and a string of flimsy excuses even she didn’t really believe in. 

“Not yet” might have been the wrong choice of words, because now it had been more than half a year (as Ron lightly pointed out.) 

Something must have happened to her during the war, something to mess her up. Ginny was back with Harry as often as she could sneak out, ever since he had moved into Grimmauld Place on his own. And Ginny seemed very happy with that situation, to hear her talk about it; she wanted it and she liked it when she got it. Hermione didn’t want it. She wondered idly if Bellatrix had cursed desire out of her. 

Hermione managed to keep him at bay until Easter, but he showed up at the castle a couple of days beforehand. 

“You’ve got break next week,” he said, dragging his fingers along the edge of the desk and staring at them too intently for it to be an idle gesture. It was just a ploy to keep his eyes off her––and sure enough they found her, sneaking around to take a look. Hermione buried her nose further in her law book, pretending not to catch his gaze. 

Ron stood there for a minute, then groaned loudly. “Come on, Hermione. We’ve been putting this trip off for months. You can’t be _that_ busy.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Very romantic, Ronald.” She turned a page. 

Ron’s face fell just a little. “I just feel like I never see you anymore.” 

Hermione frowned. “You’re lucky you have this repair job and I’m of age; otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you except on breaks.” 

Ron took a seat in the wooden chair and sighed. He looked weary, Hermione reflected; sort of slumped and worn. He had dust in his hair because he’d spent the day helping install new doors for some of the damaged classrooms. She reluctantly closed the book. 

“I’m here now,” she said softly. “I just have a lot going on.” 

Ron shrugged, a lethargic, noncommittal roll of the shoulders. “So you’re busy over Easter.” 

Hermione nodded. “I just have to keep studying. You distract me sometimes, you know.” She said it lightly, with a tilt of her lips, but he really did get in the way of her work. 

Ron didn’t catch the look behind her eyes and smiled. “I’ll let you study,” he said. “Just picture it. We can wake up, in the cottage in Brighton...I’ll make you breakfast; you can read a book at the table for the next four hours if you absolutely insist…” 

Hermione set her book aside and got up. She crossed over by him. “Maybe,” she said, feeling selfish. It would be nice to get away––at least, it would be if she could ever figure out how to let herself relax. 

Ron grinned. “I guess that means you do actually like me.” 

“Of course I do.” Hermione ran her hand through his hair; he closed his eyes and his hands fastened lightly around her waist. She bent down closer to him, leaning into a deep, long kiss. He tasted sort of weird. Didn’t she used to like kissing him, before? Kissing kind of sucked. Did people actually like this? Did Ginny like this? 

She pulled back. Ron opened his eyes slowly; dreamily. “You’ll come to Brighton?” 

She nodded, trying to deny the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Yeah.” 

He grinned and hugged her tight. “Good.” 

* * *

Hermione spent that evening trying to read two books at once and take notes at the same time for an imaginary essay on futures law. Maybe one of her law classes would assign it and she could pull it out of her bag, fully formed, and get an evening to herself to get ahead on other work. 

She was cross-legged on the floor of the Eighth Year Common Room and she had Silbertson, Volume XI open by her left knee and the relevant chapter of Luckinbill open by her right. In the middle were her notes. Luckinbill had proven every bit as helpful as Draco said; it was much shorter but very incisive, once you got used to the dry writing style. 

What did one wear to a first weekend with their boyfriend? She should buy something cute, or––there was that sick feeling again. Hermione violently turned a page of Luckinbill. It seemed like there was an actual difference of _opinion_ between her and Silberston; it wasn’t just semantics…. 

A loud _pop_ sounded in front of her, and she looked up to see one of the House Elves. 

“Flipsy!” She exclaimed, putting on a smile. She recognized the elf by her ruffled pink pillowcase. 

“Hello, Mistress Hermione,” said Flipsy, a nervous smile fleeting across her thin lips. “I is coming to give you a message from Madam Pince.” 

Hermione frowned, her hand resting protectively on Luckinbill. “Ginny checked this out; I’m just borrowing it.” 

“Madam Pince wants to see you,” said Flipsy, wringing her hands on her pillowcase. 

“All right, thank you,” said Hermione, dipping her quill into her inkpot. “I’ll be by once I’m finished with this essay.” 

“No, no,” Flipsy squeaked. “Madam Pince wants to see you _now.”_

Hermione laid the quill down and capped her inkpot, feeling a bit frustrated. “Thank you, Flipsy. Tell her I’ll be right there.” 

She hadn’t been to the library in ages. She had walked to the entrance once or twice on especially bad days to sort of longingly try to peer in and catch a glimpse of the books, but now she pushed open the door and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, taking in the scent of the paper. Unfortunately Madam Pince’s office was directly to the right of the library door; she would have loved an excuse to take a meandering walk through the place on her way. Instead she opened the door to Madam Pince’s office and stepped in. 

“Miss Granger.” The greeting was curt. Madam Pince was seated behind her desk, hands folded primly in front of her. Hermione was a little surprised to see Ginny seated in a wooden chair in the corner, sitting up a little too stiffly like she might be forcibly stuck to the chair. 

“Madam Pince.” Hermione nodded politely, casting an inquiring look in Ginny’s direction. Ginny winked mischievously. 

Madam Pince paused for a moment before speaking, giving time for an even more sour expression to take root on her features. 

“I’ve decided to let you back into the library,” she said at last.

Hermione gasped, a smile spreading across her face. 

Madam Pince frowned to see it. “I don’t want to let you back in. However, half of my law section has gone missing, and Mrs. Norris tipped me off that it’s been lifted to the Eighth Year Common Room. I’ve been reliably informed your friends won’t stop trying to sneak books out unless I let you back in.” 

“That’s right, we won’t!” Ginny proclaimed triumphantly from the wooden chair to which she was confined. She blew a long ginger hair off her lips. “Hermione’s going to be a brilliant lawyer, but if you keep getting in the way and not letting her study––” 

“Miss Weasley, I assure you, I was listening the first time,” Madam Pince cut in. She folded her hands and looked intently at Hermione. “Now, let us set some ground rules about how to behave around my books. No tearing, no folding pages, no eating, no drinking…” 

A little later the voice of Madam Pince declaring her rules was almost faded from her memory as she let her fingertips dance along the spines of the Potions section. Finally... _finally._ No longer would she be limited by her own memory or class syllabi when requesting books (Hermione had been pleasantly surprised by the breadth of her recollection)––here were hundreds of old and new book friends she would never have known to ask people for. 

She let her fingertips slide around the corner, let them take in the smooth old wood of the shelves. She could feel Madam Pince’s eyes on her as she briefly slid out into the room to go into the next aisle. 

She knew where she was going, and while it gave her a buzzing feeling in her stomach, she didn’t try to direct her steps elsewhere. She turned and stepped into the law section. 

It looked just about the way it had the last time she had been here, when she had pressed Draco up against the desk and terrorized him about his past. It all flashed before her eyes for a moment, then cleared, and there was no one here but her. She walked further down, looking intently at the titles, wondering if Draco had read any others. Was he studying at Malfoy Manor? What did he do all day? He must feel so unfulfilled if he wasn’t studying. 

Madam Pince was right––a large portion of the books were missing. It wasn’t half, thank goodness (that would have meant the collection was rather small), but the Silberston series was ordinarily a shelf to itself and that was gone, and Luckinbill was in the Common Room of course, and there were little gaping holes in the display where some of the case study books belonged. 

Hermione picked out a couple of books she had never seen before and then went back to the Potions section and chose a couple more there. She left about an hour later, passing out underneath Madam Pince’s withering stare. 

She hugged the books tightly to herself. Now that she had the library, everything was going to be okay. Hogwarts would feel like home again. She could enjoy her trip with Ron if she brought enough books to read. 

She thought it, but try as she might she didn’t quite believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've got more chapters queued up, I'll be posting more often! At minimum, there will be at least one chapter on the first of every month - so expect a nice chunk come August 1st.


	12. The Mind at Midnight

Hermione woke up in the middle of the night the Monday before Easter because Draco needed to come back to Hogwarts. 

There wasn’t a fully formed thought behind that, not yet. She lay there, wide-eyed and unmoving under the rumpled bedcovers, listening to the howling of the wind as a spring storm pattered the glass. 

It made sense. She wasn’t unhappy because of school, or because of Ron, or because she was studying too much. She was clearly unhappy because her courses were too easy, because there was no one left at Hogwarts who could pose the slightest threat to her standing as the top of her class. 

Draco had always been second, and, on one or two occasions, first. Those times had led to a fire in her cheeks and a determination in her bones, like she couldn’t let him win, couldn’t let him have what everyone thought should be just handed to him. It was like she was fighting for more than herself; like there was a reason to her late nights in the library, trying to master more magic than a Pureblood Slytherin, trying to prove that a Muggleborn daughter of dentists could do it. 

Without his snide comments about her blood status, his repulsively beautiful features and the way he moved through the castle like it belonged to him and not her, it was harder to summon up the motivation to push through the dry texts and master the more difficult spells. 

But then he had just _failed._ Of his own accord. Withdrawn himself from the race. Given up. 

He couldn’t give up. She was supposed to beat him. That was why she felt so dissatisfied with her life. 

Hermione crawled out of bed, finally giving up on sleep. She was going to have to figure out how to talk Draco into coming back. 

She slipped downstairs into the Eighth Year Common Room, which was windowless and therefore maddening. It must be around three in the morning, maybe four; too early to be up and about but possibly too late for Filch to be prowling. There was a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ by the fire––Seamus’s copy––which was what she needed. She tucked it under her arm and slipped out of the portrait hole. 

Hermione honestly wasn’t sure she cared these days if she got caught out of bed. She felt she was too old to really care about detentions. Still, it would be a waste of her time, so she cast a silencing charm on her footsteps and tapped herself to apply a Disillusionment charm. 

Hermione found her way all the way up to one of the old classrooms in Ravenclaw Tower. It had high windows along the desks, and the rain was pounding against them now, the drops barely visible in the hazy northern light. 

She dragged a bench against a pillar below one of the windows and took a seat, drawing her knees to her chest. She removed the Disillusionment charm so she could read and opened the _Daily Prophet_ to the Society pages. 

It was all weddings and gossip and picnics and scandals. She read through for Draco’s name, but she didn’t catch it. Harry was in here–– _“Mr. Potter accompanied Miss Weasley to a Wizarding Opera for which he had received tickets courtesy of Celestina Warbeck, in gratitude for his service to the Wizarding World––”_ and she wondered if Mrs. Weasley read this section of the paper. Also, why weren’t she and Ron being given free opera tickets? 

There was something about the Malfoys. Apparently Lucius Malfoy had fired his lawyer and was looking for a new one. It sounded like the first one had insisted he plead guilty…. 

Hermione got through the whole section, or enough of it, and let go of the paper, leaning her head back against the rough stone column behind her to better watch the rain fall. She was going to have to intercept Draco somewhere. Ginny was right that she couldn’t just waltz up to Malfoy Manor anytime she liked. 

She was running out of time, though; Easter was coming late this year, which meant the term was more than half over. It was this weekend or never. She needed to use it to search out Draco and talk him into coming back, or else she’d never feel alive at Hogwarts again or regain the motivation she needed to ace her N.E.W.T.s.

She sighed, thinking of the disappointment in Ron’s face when she told him to cancel their cottage reservations again. Best to write him in a letter––tell him she had some project, invite him to Grimmauld Place––and spare herself the face-to-face reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick chapter today! Much longer/plottier stuff coming next week (August 1st :) )


	13. Damned Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realized I will not have internet access on August 1st, so here is that update a day early! :) 
> 
> Next installment coming September 1st, but I expect I'll be posting sooner than that too.

_She was running out of time, though; Easter was coming late this year, which meant the term was more than half over. It was this weekend or never. She needed to use it to search out Draco and talk him into coming back, or else she’d never feel alive at Hogwarts again or regain the motivation she needed to ace her N.E.W.T.s._

__

__

_She sighed, thinking of the disappointment in Ron’s face when she told him to cancel their cottage reservations again. Best to write him in a letter––tell him she had some project, invite him to Grimmauld Place––and spare herself the face-to-face reaction._

 

_________

She did have to see Ron’s face, though, because he showed up to get her from Hogsmeade before she could beat him home. She could see immediately that he was upset with her. She ducked behind the enormous pile of books she was carrying. 

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said, coming closer, his face sour. He levitated the books out of her arms and stared at the stack, his lips curling unpleasantly. “Really? You can’t _possibly_ read all these in a week.” 

“I don’t have to,” said Hermione defensively, brushing a stray curl out of her face and crossing her arms. “I just need pieces of each of them. I’ve got an essay to write.” 

Ron jerked his wand, spinning the books around so he could better see the titles. “About...tort law?” 

“It’s for my law school application,” Hermione lied. He looked stormy behind his eyes and she felt sick. 

He turned those eyes on her again. “And you _really_ can’t come to the cottage? You really, really can’t spare one weekend––one _night_ ––out of this entire damn year?” 

Hermione shook her head. “But you can stay at Grimmauld Place.” She tried to placate him, softening her voice. “You should see the nightie I brought. It’s too cold for the shore. It barely covers _anything.”_

That worked; Ron’s face changed and he helped her load her bag on the train. Hermione felt truly nauseous now, following after him, sneaking looks at different parts of his body and wondering how soon she was going to see what the whole thing looked like. He wasn’t bad looking. She could enjoy this. She’d love it, as soon as she got in the moment. Wasn’t she human? 

They made it to Grimmauld Place and Harry and Ginny were already there. It was a relief to see them, Harry especially; they laughed and swapped stories in the kitchen for hours and hours while Hermione downed more than half a bottle of firewhisky. Maybe she would start to feel amorous if she drank enough. Ron kept tapping her on the shoulder, asking if it was time for bed, and she said no, one more drink, one more story, until it was very late indeed and Harry and Ginny said their goodnights and went up to bed. 

They were alone in the kitchen now. The world was a little wobbly from the firewhisky; a bit softer around the edges. Ron pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers, pushing down into a deep kiss. God, he tasted so bad. Had he really always tasted like this? She waited until he let go and he said something husky about moving upstairs. She downed another shot of firewhisky, relishing the burning as it splashed down her throat, willing it to get rid of the Ron taste. 

She followed him through the house, fingers lightly grasping his hand. It just….

She was eleven again, and so was he, and he was driving her crazy. Or fourteen and she did have a crush on him and he was ignoring her. Oh, god, god; _why_ hadn’t he decided to like her back when she was fourteen and would have been into this? 

She tripped her way up two flights of stairs and they fell into the bedroom and Ron shut the door and pushed her against it, drinking her in, pressing the whole weight of his body against hers, keeping her there. 

“Stop,” she whispered, pushing against his shoulder with her palm. His lips came off hers at once and he leaned back, enough for her to breath on her own. She looked at his eyes, which were sort of glazed looking but also concerned, now. 

“What is it?” He whispered, and the smell of his breath revolted her. It didn’t even smell _bad_ ––it smelled minty––but it smelled like _him._ Something clicked in his brain. “Your nightie,” he said, his eyes lighting up. He stepped back to give her space to get out from the door. “You forgot to put your nightie on.” 

Hermione took a step toward her trunk, feeling quite suddenly naked already, even though she was still wearing her jeans and was wrapped in a comfy Weasley sweater from last Christmas. She took another step, and she could have sworn she was about to puke all over the green carpet. She thought about Apparating––somewhere, anywhere; find out for real if it was possible to Apparate to Australia––but the wards were up on the house. She’d never manage. 

“I can’t,” she whispered, not daring to look back at him. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Give me a minute.” She hoped the minute would stretch into eternity. 

“You can’t?” 

She could picture his face behind her. It would be growing darker, disappointed; upset, maybe. 

“Can’t do what? I can help you change…” 

She shook her head. Something was pricking her eyes. “It’s not that. It’s just that...Harry’s in the house,” she finished lamely. 

Ron groaned dramatically and knocked into the wall. “Harry’s in the house? They already gave our cottage away, Hermione. Where do you want to go? The Leaky Cauldron? Some room above the Hog’s Head?” 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” she whispered, her voice not even really audible. 

“Didn’t catch that.” 

Apparently it wasn’t audible at all. She had to turn and look at him. Hermione swiveled on her heel, with great effort, like she was moving through a swamp. Ron looked up at her from where he was leaning against the door. His eyes looked horribly sad, and suddenly she felt a pang of guilt. She put on a smile. “I’m kidding,” she whispered, opening her arms. “Here is good.” 

He looked confused; hesitant. He walked toward her but it was slow. Then all too quickly he had reached her and his hands were clasping around hers and he was nuzzling her face with his. She sucked in her breath; she could stand this if it meant so much to him. But he pulled away. 

“You’re not into this,” he said, looking downcast. 

Hermione bit her lip, not sure what to say. 

“What’s going on?” He looked dark; suspicious. “There’s not...someone...else, is there?” 

“Of course not! No, no, no.” Hermione shook her head wildly. 

Ron frowned. “Then what is it?” 

“I just...I can’t,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. 

“You can’t?” His frown deepened. 

“That’s right.” 

“You mean you can’t or you don’t want to?” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Ron’s face looked worse than she had ever seen it––tormented, tortured, furious, amorous, ugly. It was the sort of face that demanded an explanation, no matter how raw and terrible that was. 

“I think I’m broken,” she whispered. 

Ron dropped her hands and turned away. 

Hermione’s hands found their way to her elbows and she folded her arms. “I just feel numb all the time. I don’t feel…hungry, I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel interested in anything, really. Just sort of sad. And not even _sad._ It’s like I can’t manage to feel truly sad.” 

Ron didn’t speak for a long minute. He had his arms folded too, and his back to her. “I keep trying to make you happy,” he said, his voice sounding small. “I don’t know what I can do. You’re just…reading, all the time; too much. It isn’t good for you to be that much in your head.” 

Hermione bit her lip to try and quell the fear of the void that would engulf her if she stopped filling her head with words. 

Ron let his arms fall to dangle at his sides. “So we’re not going to do it,” he said finally, turning back for an answer. 

Hermione shook her head and Ron’s face fell. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered. “I honestly think there’s something…wrong with me. I think she did it. Bellatrix. I think she cursed it out of me.” 

“Is there a counter spell to put it back?” His voice sounded choked.

“I don’t know. Just give me some time, okay?” 

He sighed. “How much time do you need, Hermione?” 

She didn’t answer. She was racking her brains for a timeframe, but everything was too short for her and at the same time too long to dare say out loud in front of him... 

Ron turned away finally and pulled the door open, distaste coloring his features. “I’ll see you later,” he said. He stepped out of the door. 

“I really am sorry!” Hermione burst out after him, making a slight run toward the door. “I love you!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” his voice drifted up from the stairs. 

Hermione stood at the door then. She wished for a minute that she wanted to run after him, drag him back in, kiss him passionately, slam the door, start tearing at his clothing…but instead she pushed it shut and went over and faceplanted on her bed. 

She sort of expected to cry. She felt hemmed in; hated disappointing people. But she also felt…herself, was the only way to put it. Here she was, her body on the bed, taking up space in the world, existing on her own, untouched, unruled by anybody. It wasn’t a bad feeling. 

* * *

She went downstairs the next morning, a bit bleary-eyed but otherwise refreshed. 

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked, looking up from his coffee over the edge of the _Daily Prophet._

“He went home.” Hermione poured herself a cup and took one of Kreacher’s rock hard scones. She padded over to the bench and sat down heavily. “He wasn’t feeling well.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed and she swore she could actually see the gears of his brain grinding, trying to slowly puzzle out an emotion. “He looked fine to me,” he said finally. 

“Too much to drink.” Hermione took a sip. It was disgusting––she sputtered a bit and set the cup down. 

“Well, he didn’t have to go; he could have recovered here—”

“Harry, I need your help,” she said, cutting him off. 

“Help with what?” 

“Malfoy.” 

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Malfoy? Why?” 

“He’s ruining his life. He needs to come back to Hogwarts.” Hermione dumped half the contents of the sugar bowl in her coffee and charmed it with her wand to stir itself. “Now, have you got any idea where he is? Where he might go when he’s not at Malfoy Manor?” 

Harry frowned and set down his cup and paper. “Why do you care if Malfoy ruins his life?” 

Hermione glared at him. “Because it’s stressing me out to imagine someone not studying for their N.E.W.T.s, that’s why. Now where is he?” 

Harry picked up his paper again, giving her a suspicious look over the top. “It’s interesting, actually,” he said slowly. “He’s reconciled with Andromeda.” 

“Andromeda? Andromeda Tonks?” Hermione took another test sip of her coffee. There was so much sweetener in it now that she could taste the sugar grains, but it was much improved. “Like Tonks’s mother, Andromeda Tonks?” 

Harry nodded. “Her and Narcissa are sisters, apparently. Which makes him Teddy’s first cousin once removed.” 

Hermione took a deeper sip. “So what has he been up to?” 

Harry took a drink, set it down, and cleared his throat. “Babysitting.” 

Hermione choked on her coffee. “Babysitting?” She sputtered. 

Harry nodded. “Andromeda’s gone back to work at the Ministry. She needed someone to watch Teddy while she’s away, and apparently Draco reached out a few months ago and wanted to talk. They’d never met before because of the bad blood between their mothers.” 

Hermione was still shocked. “So he just...spends his days….” 

“Chasing Teddy around the house.” Harry nodded. “I know.” He shrugged. “On that note, your ‘Malfoy is reformed’ theory seems to be a good one. Andromeda would never trust him otherwise; she’s a very picky woman. Won’t even trust me with Teddy.” He mumbled the last bit into his coffee cup. 

Hermione tried not to laugh. “So is he there now?” 

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. He might be visiting.” 

Hermione nodded; took a drink. Swallowed. Set her coffee down. “Great. Get dressed; let’s go.” 

“Let’s go?” Harry sat up straight, confused. “Why would we go? Now? Ginny’s still asleep.” 

Hermione pushed back the bench and stood up. “Even better. We’ll be back before she wakes up.” 

Harry folded up his paper and finished off his coffee. “Why are we going?” 

“I need to talk to him. Give him some well-meaning advice.” She took his cup away and set them both in the sink. 

“You just want to...talk to him? What are you going to say?” 

Hermione shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.” 

“You haven’t got a speech?” 

“I figured it’ll come to me.” 

Harry still looked unconvinced. 

“C’mon. Just come with me, all right? I don’t know Andromeda that well.” 

Harry stood up, finally. “All right. But we can’t stay long, okay? I don’t want Ginny to think I’ve abandoned her or anything. Actually, I’m going to write her a note just in case.” 

Hermione started out of the kitchen to go change. “Great. Can you also owl Andromeda real quick? Let her know we’re coming?” 

“No, no.” Harry followed her into the hall. “He’ll leave if he knows. He’s a bit skittish. I haven’t actually seen him there. I just got it out of Teddy when he started talking about ‘Muncle Dwayco.’” 

Hermione burst out laughing. There was something about the innocence of the phrase contrasted with the arrogance of the boy she had known that made her hope Teddy was around so she could see Draco’s reaction to it. 

* * *

Andromeda lived in a modest house in the country. It was down the road from a Muggle village, a little one with squat gray stone units and just one or two shops, and Andromeda’s house was squat and gray to begin with but then it was covered every inch of it with ivy and wisteria. It was still April so the wisteria wasn’t in bloom yet, but the cottage was a lovely green from the leaves of it all. 

There was a tiny garden in the front, with blue and purple tulips marching in lines and rose bushes trailing the fence and a scattering of other flowers Hermione didn’t recognize, and it was through this they walked to ring the bell. They had to move aside a little plastic child’s car to reach it. 

The bell rang for a long moment in the house, then they could hear footsteps approaching the door. There was the sound of a peephole sliding open, then a couple of locks being undone, and at once it was flung open to reveal Andromeda. 

“Harry!” She was an aging, toothy woman, and she engulfed Harry in a hug at once. She shook Hermione’s hand cordially. “What a lovely surprise,” she was saying. “Now, I suppose you’ll be dropping by to see Teddy––” 

Another set of footsteps came from around the corner, and Draco Malfoy came into view before stopping abruptly. He was carrying a purple-haired toddler in his arms, but he started to set him down now. 

“Wait!” Harry called to him, signaling to Andromeda to be just a moment. “It’s Draco we wanted to talk to, actually.” 

Draco had the look of a small animal beginning to realize it’s in a trap, with a panicked glint in his eyes and a tense energy to his stance. Hermione realized he was going to try and Disapparate as soon as he’d put Teddy on the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” she burst out in desperation.

Draco paused. Teddy mumbled something and grabbed onto Draco’s hair with a tiny fist; Draco’s face twisted in pain and he very gently used his free hand to loosen the toddler’s grip. Teddy wriggled back into Draco’s arms. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione repeated, wringing her hands. She cast an anxious look at Harry; there was a wild look in his eyes that she guessed had something to do with seeing Draco with Lupin’s son. 

Draco was still hesitant, still on edge; still waiting. 

“Come back to Hogwarts,” she begged. It was more direct than she’d intended, and she was now really regretting not preparing a speech. “Hogwarts isn’t the same without you. It’s...dull. And...I know what I said, but I can’t stop thinking about what you said, too. And you’re right. I was...wrong.” She rubbed her arm. 

Draco didn’t say anything. She couldn’t tell if that was due to shock or consideration or anger. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry cut in unexpectedly. They all turned to look at him, except Teddy, who was busy chewing on Draco’s shirt collar. “I’ve never told you I’m sorry, but I am. Really. We were just young and we didn’t know any better. I called you a lot of things, and I’m sorry for that, and I feel really bad about the time I slashed you in the loo.” 

Draco unconsciously touched his chest. 

“I really didn’t have a clue what that spell did, you know,” Harry continued, mindlessly rubbing his forearm. “I mean, loads of what I did to you over the years was sort of in self defense, but still. And I’d like to apologize for the time we thought you were the heir of Slytherin and we drugged your friends so we could try and extort a confession from you.” 

Draco, watching, looked almost amused. “You thought I was the heir of Slytherin?” His eyes were dancing a little. 

“Well, yeah,” said Harry. “It seemed logical. I mean, you were always going on about Slytherin stuff.” 

Draco shook his head and grinned. “Wow. Yeah, no. But that’s pretty brilliant.” 

“And I’m sorry, too,” said Hermione. Draco and Andromeda and Harry all swiveled to look at her and she suddenly felt keenly aware of herself in the space. “I shouldn’t have...done a lot of stuff over the years. And I’m sorry I scratched up your face.” She peered at him to see if he still had any scars. 

He shook his head and touched his cheek; his skin looked unblemished. “It’s fine.” 

“Well, I really regret what I said,” said Hermione, her voice faltering. She found herself looking at the floor. “I was…” She shook her head. “God, I said some awful things. I really shouldn’t have. I don’t think you’re worthless, you aren’t pathetic, Fred’s death wasn’t your fault and I don’t hate you.” 

Draco stiffened and she got the sense he hadn’t passed on to anyone the exact content of her words. 

“Come back to Hogwarts. Please,” she said in a small voice, daring a glance back at him. 

“She means it,” Harry cut in. “She keeps complaining it stresses her out to think of you not getting your N.E.W.T.s. I can’t imagine why; I’m so glad to be avoiding mine, and she doesn’t seem to have a problem with that––” He stopped when he looked at Hermione, who shuddered. 

“It stresses me out a lot, actually,” she said quietly. “To think you might not be qualified for a management position when you reach that level.” 

They all laughed at her, even Draco with an easy grin. She felt a bit better. 

“So you’ll come?” She asked. 

The grin vanished from his face and he looked almost anguished. 

“He’ll think about it,” Andromeda answered for him. “Thank you for coming by.” 

“Of course,” said Hermione. She and Harry took a step out the door and she looked back at Draco as she was leaving. “Come back,” she said finally. 

Draco was still standing there, saying nothing. 

“Well, that was a wash,” she murmured under her breath to Harry. 

Harry took her hand and they Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’d like to just chime in as the author and a person real quick here to comment on the scene at the beginning of the chapter. Hermione doesn’t owe Ron anything, of course, no matter how many months they’ve been together. Ron’s okay for wanting it, but an ongoing problem in the way he approaches her is that he doesn’t really listen to her and is more focused on what he can get from her. It shouldn’t have taken this scene for him to realize he needed to back off physically; in a healthier relationship that would have been a conversation a lot sooner, and he wouldn’t have got his little temper tantrum at the end. I threw him a bone in letting him come to that realization at all; in the first draft of this chapter she had to shove him off her, but I rewrote it to where he chooses to take a step back because I wanted to portray a more nuanced Ron, not evil!Ron. 
> 
> I also went back and forth on writing this note because I usually prefer to let my writing stand on its own, but I decided to do so in this case because consent can be such a messy, tangled discussion, and I think that portraying an intelligent, successful woman like Hermione as a slightly unreliable narrator who’s not accurately processing her own emotions can be confusing––but realistic. A big theme in this story is that Hermione & co. are all working through some trauma from the war and could really benefit from therapy, but because it’s 1999 they don’t have the vocabulary to express that. 
> 
> So, in summary: Hermione’s feeling of “guilt” is an illusion stemming from this particular moment in time; she will come to see this scene in a different light; and her relationship with Draco will be nothing like this. Now on towards some proper Dramione content!


	14. Triumph and Travesties

The rest of Easter weekend was a wash indeed. Her invitation to the Weasley family celebrations went mysteriously unmentioned, so Hermione spent most of the holiday holed up in Regulus’ old bedroom in Grimmauld Place, drafting inquiry letters about entry-level legal support jobs under the stolid glare of the peeling green tapestries. She’d done a quick count of her finances, and found she’d almost entirely used up the allowance the Ministry gave to Muggleborns—it was generous, but intended for only books and robes and pocket money, not food or housing post graduation. 

This naturally sent her into a somewhat panicked state, so the moment the Muggle banks reopened she took a trip down to the ordinary part of London to check up on her Muggle finances. 

Her parents had opened a savings account for her at birth, intending it to be a college fund back before anyone knew she was a witch. They had kept contributing even when she had gone to Hogwarts—they had hoped she would be able to study in America, originally, and continued to harbor that hope even through her first years of magical education—so given interest rates and the passing of the years, the sum inside was sizable. The papers had always been in her name, and she had already dipped into the fund the time she had purchased a ticket to try and restore their memories in Australia. 

They had intended it for supporting her higher education, she reasoned now; she told herself they would have been happy for it to go to housing expenses while she was in Magical Law School. There was enough for a small Muggle apartment for two or three years, at least if rental rates were what she thought they were, and if she were very thrifty there might be just enough for Muggle food. 

It would be a tight existence, and it would require a whole foot in the Muggle world she had hoped to leave behind, but it would be better than relying on Harry’s generosity to house her and feed her during school. That she simply couldn’t ask. He was already barely responsible enough to look after himself, and if he had not inherited a house and a house-elf she shuddered to think what sort of lifestyle he would have scraped together. He would probably be living in a broomshed somewhere, because he still seemed to have very little concept of what money was for besides the purchase of high-end Quidditch supplies. 

Her finances now sorted and the inquiry letters posted, the week was quite over. It had been productive, she reasoned, even though she had only finished two of the five histories of Magical Criminal Law she had planned on reading during the break. 

Hermione felt it was best to give Ron some space after the events of the other night. She wasn’t sure what she would say to him, at any rate; she didn’t feel like apologizing, and she felt even less eager to make love to him than she had previously. He had seemed quite miffed, which was understandable, given the money and time he had put into making a holiday for them. 

She wasn’t entirely sure if they were still together, actually. Was she uninvited to the Burrow because they had broken up, or because Ron was off alone in the countryside pretending to people that she hadn’t left him in the lurch? She had no idea, and hadn’t honestly given it much thought while she was busy sorting out the process for letting a Muggle flat or trying to craft a decent letter of inquiry to famous barristers she had never met. She couldn’t even ask Ginny, because Ginny had been called away very suddenly try out for a spot on the Holyhead Harpies. Hermione hoped Ginny would return to sit for her N.E.W.T.s even if she placed on the team. She was starting to feel like she didn’t know a single person besides herself who actually cared about the exams. 

So, with a goodbye to Harry and a couple of Muggle papers with vacancy ads, Hermione stacked up her books and dumped them inside her beaded bag and Apparated back to Hogsmeade. 

When Hermione got back to the Eighth Year Common Room, Hannah looked up at her and collapsed into giggling, trying in vain to staunch her amusement behind her manicured nails. 

“What is it?” Hermione asked irritably. 

Hannah just snorted and pointed up at the girls’ dorm. 

Hermione heaved the beaded bag up the stairs, regretting her decision to pack the books inside instead of levitating them by themselves. At least it wasn’t much further. 

She dragged the bag through the door, then pulled up short. Something was different. Something was…. 

Mandy was perched on her bed, her eyes dancing. Hermione followed Mandy’s gaze to her own bed, which...she didn’t remember having bright pink bedcovers. 

She dropped the beaded bag and hurried over to investigate. Another step revealed the color was coming not from the blankets, but from dozens of pink roses, tightly packed in a great heap on the coverlet. A pile of Easter lilies covered her pillow. Just below that a big, round dish was buried among the flowers––Hermione recognized it as some sort of pie, but ordinarily, you didn’t put icing on pies. Someone had written on this one, in shaky green goop. 

_You are my rose, my lily, and my cherry pie. I will wait for you. <3, Ron <3 _

Hermione blushed the color of the cherries and looked up to see Mandy cackling, practically doubling over herself. 

“Boyfriend troubles?” She wheezed. 

“Shove off,” Hermione muttered, her face crimson. 

Sue Li, one of the Ravenclaws, came in then, and her face lit up into a very genuine smile when she saw the display. 

“He’s so sweet,” she said, gently taking a seat on her own bed and pulling off her shoes. “I’ve never had anyone buy me even one flower.” 

“How did he even get in here?” Hermione’s skin was still flaming under the surface, and she crossed her arms tightly. 

“He didn’t,” said Mandy. “He had five house-elves put this together while he waited in the Common Room, staring longingly up here. I told him you were probably angry at him, whatever it was he’d done.” 

“Angry? No,” Hermione murmured, softening just a little. 

“I think it’s really sweet he wants to wait,” said Sue. “Whatever it is you’re waiting for.” 

The color pumped back into Hermione’s cheeks. She conjured up a basket and used her wand to sweep all the flowers inside. They left behind a residue of dirt and water droplets, necessitating some cleaning of her bedspread. She felt herself growing frustrated. It was time to take refuge in the library. 

Hermione wiped off every trace of the horrid green icing and abandoned the pie in the Gryffindor Common Room, where some Third Year boys tore into it at once. Then she took herself to the library, but she didn’t feel like reading. She just plonked her head down on one of the desks and sat like that for a while. 

When she finally peeled her cheek off the wood desk, she had decided that what Ron had done was very sweet and she ought to put her reservations aside and be grateful. It was kind of him to buy her flowers and tell her through a gesture that he was willing to respect her request for space; never mind that it felt mortifying to be on the receiving end of it. It was the thought that counted, and she needed to get over herself if she was ever going to get out of the way of her own happiness. 

She pulled a scroll and quill out of her bag and wrote the letter she thought the situation deserved. “I love you too and you’re the kindest human alive, thank you for putting up with me; I look forward to our eternal future together” was the general gist of it, with some “your face is cute” thrown in for good measure. She finished it quickly, but it took her rather a while to send it. It was right to send it, of course; it was a truthful letter––it was how she ought to feel. But she just stared at the rolled-up scroll for a while and meandered several times on her way to the owlery. 

* * *

She couldn’t remember her dreams in the morning, but there had been something stressful about them. She didn’t feel rested at all, and decided to skip breakfast in favor of a few minutes spent curled up in an armchair in the Eighth Year Common Room, staring blankly at the smoldering fireplace. 

She got to Potions in just the nick of time, set her bag down by her stool, and pulled out her knife. Draco sat down next to her and did the same. She greeted him thoughtlessly, then did a double take and whirled about to face him. 

“You’ve come back!” She was grinning madly; she wanted to give him a hug but she wasn’t sure how to start. 

“Hello,” he said, smiling nervously. He was looking sort of shifty-eyed around the room. The other Eighth Years were noticing his presence now, and a low muttering was beginning to swell up around the room. 

Hermione noticed his obvious discomfort and his desire to play it cool. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re back. Thank you.” She touched his arm gently, and he flinched and pulled away. She frowned and rolled her eyes. Maybe she had been idealizing him too much; was he still disgusted by her blood status? 

Slughorn began the lesson again. “I see Mr. Malfoy has decided to rejoin us, and just in time for the Draught of Quasirest! Now, this is a very complicated potion, ladies and gentlemen, and with very complicated effects...” 

The Draught of Quasirest was a volatile substance that affected the taker differently depending on their mental state, causing either peace and focus or a manic episode. It was an individual brew, not a partnered one, and required a finicky, fast-moving touch. 

Hermione quickly found the rhythm of the brew and stirred and chopped and added with control. Her potion rose and fell and spun and changed color in time with the directions. She snuck a glance over at Draco, and found to her dismay that he was stirring around a cauldron full of black sludge. He kept shooting water in with his wand, trying to revitalise the potion, beads of sweat popping out on his pale forehead. With a glance around the room he finally vanished the whole thing and tried to start over again from the beginning. 

“Good, good, Mr. Finnegan.” Slughorn was pacing around the room, nodding at potions. “Nice touch. Now remember, you need to be slicing the beans at a quadridiagonal, the way we did for the Nitrocoak a few weeks back.” 

Draco looked up in some panic, and just then a loud bang sounded from his cauldron as the new mixture exploded in a mushroom cloud of foul-smelling pink gas, showering the entire class with blue sludge. 

The class erupted in disgust, pausing to vanish the filthy mixture off their robes and faces. Slughorn’s face crumpled. He came over to Draco’s cauldron at once. “Now, now, that was an elementary mistake,” he chided. “I know you’ve got it in you to do better, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve got to be very careful of the direction of your stir, remember; but I know you knew that, you’ve always had top marks…” 

Draco’s face was stony. He pulled his bag over his shoulder and got up and left the classroom without a word. 

Slughorn looked around at them all. “Well, keep stirring!” He ordered them. “These potions will all explode if left untended. In fact, Mr. Malfoy’s blunder is a wonderful reminder that you all ought to revise your First Year potion brewing techniques before you take the Potions N.E.W.T…” 

* * *

It was still an hour or so before lunch, but as usual there were a handful of students studying in the Great Hall. She caught a glimpse of Draco, sitting alone at the far end staring into a cup of tea, and made a hasty decision. 

She marched into the Hall and over to where he was sitting and slammed her pile of books down on the table in front of him, causing his tea to rattle on its saucer and spill over the edges. 

“You’ve had near perfect marks for eight years. I’m not going to let you fail out now.”

He looked up at her, lips parted in surprise.

“But you’ve got to pick one.” 

His brow furrowed. “Pick what?” 

“N.E.W.T.s or classes.” She started sorting the pile by subject matter. “I’m sorry, and I will try my best, but you haven’t got time to learn to pass both.” 

“N.E.W.T.s,” he said quickly, with not a trace of hesitation. “Forget classes.” 

“Brilliant.” Hermione nodded. “Then don’t even go to class.” 

He frowned. “Don’t go to class?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione spun the N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration text around and slid it to him across the table. “It’s too much time you could be spending studying. Where do you study best?” 

He shrugged, flipping open the text to glance at the title page. “Dunno. The Library. My House, usually. The grounds if it’s warm.” 

“Good. Options. Options are good. The important thing is that you have at least one place where you know how to concentrate.” Hermione sat down and unrolled a scroll. She poised a quill above it. “Favorite time of day to study?” 

Draco looked up briefly. “Whenever. I’ll do what it takes.” 

“Good man.” She sketched out a straight line with a ruler. “Right, I’m going to write you up a study guide of all the topics for every subject that ought to be on the exams. I’m going to give you a list of books to read each morning, and if you want to pass your N.E.W.T.s, you’ll have them read and understood by evening. I’ll meet you after my classes to work on practical spellwork and help you with any questions you might have. But you _have_ to read the books. That’s key.” She looked at him intently, daring him. 

“Not a problem.” He turned a page in the Transfiguration textbook to illustrate. “See? I’ve already started.” 

She grinned––so far this was going much better than her usual efforts to tutor people. Ron would have begged her to just do the work for him by now. “I really think you can do this,” she said earnestly. “You can pass, and get your N.E.W.T.s. It’ll be really hard, but I think you’ve got it in you.” 

He looked up at her, a very genuine smile beginning to form about his lips. “I feel better already just deciding I’m going to fail all the classes.” 

“Really?” 

He nodded, looking back down at the text. “That was the worst part of the stress, was imagining how many essays behind I was. This is much better if I just have to study for exams.” 

She looked at him, his blond head already bent over the text, taking it in. This would be easier if they still had the DA––Harry had always been better than her at practical spellwork. And the Room of Requirement would have been a perfect place to practice. She bit her lip to stop from mentioning it. Draco was the reason the DA had ended, when he barged in with his Inquisitorial Squad. And she shouldn’t say anything about the Room of Requirement, not given the circumstances of the last time they had been in there. 

“Right,” she said finally. She pulled out the small notebook she’d been keeping as a comprehensive guide for the N.E.W.T.s. “This has got notes on where to find everything I’ve heard might be on the N.E.W.T.s. You can use it to guide your research.” But she didn’t hand it over just yet. 

She saw Draco waiting, looking at the little book like he wanted to take it. 

“It’s just…” she gave the binding a gentle stroke, then handed it over. “Take care of it, okay? I sort of still need it myself. I haven’t got all of it memorized.” 

She watched as Draco took it from her. It looked small in his large, long-fingered hands. He turned it over, and he ever-so-gently slid it open to examine the pages of her neatest handwriting. “We can copy it,” he said after a moment. “Have you got a blank one? Or a book you don’t especially care about?” 

Hermione did not have a blank notebook with her, nor could she fathom having a book she didn’t care about. She stood there gaping like a fish. 

“Nevermind, I think I have…” Draco dug through his possessions and pulled out a shiny new broom care manual. He flipped it open, pointed his wand at the pages, and murmured, _“Exsculpo.”_ The lines of text began to grow dimmer as the ink of the letters slowly lifted from the page, moving through the air like a vagrant bit of fuzz. Draco pulled out a vial and uncorked it, directing the text to enter the bottle. 

Hermione stared at him open mouthed. He put his elbows on the table and leaned on them. 

“That’ll just be a minute,” he said. “It’s sort of a large book, so it’ll take a while to erase. If you don’t mind loaning me the notebook for just a little while, the next step is to charm a Quick Quotes Quill to copy everything over.” 

Hermione finally managed to close her mouth. “You erased a book,” she said, wide-eyed. 

Draco shrugged, a proud smile playing across his delicate features. “I mean, I’m not exactly going to have much time for Quidditch what with all this studying I’m going to be doing.” 

“But you erased a book,” she repeated, dumbfounded. 

“Not exactly.” He gently tapped the vial. The ink was still filling it, but not the way ink would move if it were poured; it was clumpy and it was layering on itself the way icing squeezes in a ribbon and builds into a pile. “It can be reconstituted if I like.” 

“What?” She was so impressed she scraped the bench away from the table and sat down at once, putting her chin on the table to get a better view of the ink bottle. 

Draco grinned. “Half our library at home is just blank books. It’s a lot easier to charm the ink a different color, slap a fake label on, and stuff the worse books into a medicine cabinet when the Ministry comes calling. May I?” 

She nodded her permission, so he took her notebook and pulled a Quick Quotes Quill from his bag. He held it over the now blank first page of the broom care manual, where it hung by itself in the air. He tapped the first page of her notebook with his wand and murmured, _“Imperium exemplum.”_ His wand glided over to the Quick Quotes Quill and he added, _“Verborum.”_

The Quick Quotes Quill began at once to scratch away in a very Hermione-like script, tracing the loops below letters with the same controlled swooping motion she used. 

The bell rang out for second period and Hermione quite ignored it, gaping instead at the quill as it copied her notes over exactly. 

“Don’t Quick Quotes Quills take some liberties when they copy things down?” She asked, remembering Rita Skeeter as she tried to make sense of her handwriting upside down to see if the quill was adding any strange commentary. 

Draco shook his head. “It depends on the model and the spell.” 

Hermione was still staring at the Quill, fascinated. “How did you learn all this?” 

Draco tapped his tea with his wand to warm it back up, then took a sip. “When you live with a father as corrupt as mine, you learn loads of helpful administrative office spells.” 

“My,” she mouthed in wonder. She looked up at him. “You know, you could probably do an amazing job as an administrative assistant.” 

He laughed, but he looked a little touched. 

She sat up into a more comfortable position. 

Draco leaned back to sit more casually himself. “Aren’t you going to go to class?” He asked after a minute. 

She shook her head. “I’m going to sit here and learn administrative spells from you. D’you know, if Harry and Ron knew about this one, they’d have never have touched quill to paper at all? I mean, I’d have had to put shield charms on my essays if this got out to keep them from being copied or lifted onto someone else’s scroll when I’m not looking.” 

He grinned and took another sip of tea. “That’s probably why they save most of it for the advanced secretarial classes at the Ministry.” 

She looked enviously at his tea, wanting one for herself. A cup appeared right in front of her a moment later, startling her. “Bless those House Elves,” she said, grinning. She took a sip. “What do you plan on doing, once you’ve got your N.E.W.T.s?” She asked. “I mean, since you’re clearly qualified for at least one sort of job already.” 

His smile dimmed for a moment and he looked a bit lost in thought. “I dunno,” he said finally. “I dunno what sort of a job would accept me.” 

Hermione’s heart sank. “Surely they would,” she said. “You seem very talented.” 

“Thanks.” Draco rested his blonde head on one hand, leaning into it over the table. “It’s not that, though. Hiring me at the Ministry would be a terrible move for whatever office did it right now, with all the trials on. I doubt they’d even let me serve drinks at the Leaky Cauldron; I’d probably get attacked by a drunk customer or be accused of poisoning someone.” He looked down at the table. “My mother doesn’t want me to work. She doesn’t want me to leave the house, really; didn’t want me to come back here or face any of that.” 

“Don’t you want to work?” Hermione asked softly. 

“Yeah, I would,” said Draco, sitting up a little straighter and sighing. “I’ve tried the lazy heir-to-a-fortune layabout thing. It’s stultifying.” 

She snorted some tea out of her nose at his choice of vocabulary. “Sorry,” she wheezed, patting herself dry with a napkin. 

“I mean, I suppose I could work in a basement somewhere,” he continued after a moment. “Copying files. The clients would never have to see me, so it might work out.” 

Hermione drained the last of her tea and set it down finally on the saucer, where it vanished instantly, startling her. “But what would you _like_ to do? If you had a choice?” 

“Law,” he said, with not a trace of hesitation. “I’d become a barrister. I think there’s loads of good to be done, and I’ve got the resources to take on charity clients, and I think I could be really great at it.” 

Hermione didn’t have words for a moment, touched by the earnestness in his voice. “Me too,” she said. 

He grinned. “I know. Have you been reading the books I told you about?” 

She blinked. “Yes. Luckinbill was terrific; took me a while to get into but she’s very incisive––” 

“Totally agree; it’s rather difficult to read a book by a woman who made her name drafting infamously dull documents to get stuff by the goblins.” 

“Yes! And the Silbertston series I’ve finally finished. I preferred the _Bowen Files,_ though; I find it a lot easier to learn by reading the case studies.” 

“Ohh, yes.” He leaned back. “The _Bowen Files_ were excellent. Did you read _Seminal Wizengamot Summons_ by Alexis Livingston?” 

“Yes, over Christmas!” She realized she was leaning forward as far as she could go without actually crossing the table. “It was excellent. My favorite witness was Gertie Smith, in the Smith Hall burglary case.” 

“Oh, that was brilliant!” His eyes were shining. “I mean, who would have thought her sister would be so ashamed of having an illegitimate son that she would actually plead guilty to criminal negligence in leaving the vault unlocked rather than admit his parentage––” 

“Yeah, and then her sister just prances up there and was like, no, she totally had an affair with the pool boy, the recipient had a rightful claim to the inheritance––” 

“The press would’ve had a field day if the entire _Morning Prophet_ staff weren’t in Azkaban for libel at the time!” His gray eyes were dancing. 

“I’d forgotten they were!” Hermione burst out laughing. “Oh goodness, the sixteenth century was a _wild_ time…"

“It sure was.” He was smiling. “Have you read the other great sixteenth century legal history? The Allingham one?” 

“No. I haven’t heard of it.” 

The Quick Quotes Quill was finished now, and he put it back in his bag and handed her her notebook. “Well, you should. It’s a riot.” 

She took the notebook from him and set it gently aside. “You’ve read every law book in the school, haven’t you?” 

Draco grinned and ducked his head bashfully. 

She slammed her hand down on the notebook. “Draco, you should go to Magical Law School.” 

He looked up and an anxious, panicked look had replaced his smile. “But I can’t, the other students––” 

“Nonsense. You can, and you will; they’ve got a nondiscrimination policy and because Kingsley is a fair and good man that will apply to you too. And it’ll be two years in school; by the time you’ve graduated and finished your apprenticeship after that, the Death Eater trials will be all over and you can get a job you’re really passionate about.” 

She could see in his eyes he wanted desperately to try, but he still looked fearful. “But––” 

“Or you could copy files in a basement and spend your life hiding from the world.” She gathered up the books and shoved them into her bookbag. She stood up and slung the strap around her shoulder. “It’s your choice.” 

He still looked alarmed at the idea. 

She laid her hand softly on the table and looked into his eyes. “Just think about it. I’ll meet you at...four, all right?” She checked her watch. “We can work on practical spellwork then. Make sure you’ve got the Transfiguration book read. And I want to see you taking _notes_ on it.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Aye, milady. I always take notes.” 

“Of course you do.” She grinned and turned away. Her feet felt light on the stone floor, and the Great Hall looked brighter than it had when she first came in. And she suddenly felt almost...happy to be at Hogwarts. Training Draco to pass his N.E.W.T.s in a little under three weeks would be the cherry on top of her academic career.


	15. Friendship and Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got inspired by a piece of this chapter and drew up a little visual here - https://aurelia-21.tumblr.com/post/187260727417/the-slytherin-common-room-according-to-me

Hermione met Draco later outside the Great Hall as they had agreed. She was early, but then she felt restless, and paced back and forth, clenching her jaw with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Justin Finch-Fletchley walked into the Hall and glanced at her, amused. 

“Waiting for someone?” 

She shook her head automatically. “Pacing. I’ll see you later for our rounds.” 

He cocked an eyebrow and passed on into the Hall. She cursed herself for feeling the need to lie. There was nothing wrong with her tutoring Draco, nothing at all; what was wrong was the way Justin and the other Eighth Years were treating him. 

Draco came around the corner then, hair neatly combed, robes nicely pressed. He looked relieved to see her there. 

“You’re late,” she said through her teeth, at a loss for what else to say and also quite suddenly conscious of her frizzy hair and wrinkled robes. 

He frowned and checked his pocket watch. “I’m a minute early.” 

“Touché.” They stood awkwardly there for a moment. She rocked back on her heels. “Where are we going to practice?” 

“Dunno; did you have somewhere in mind?” 

She shook her head. “I was thinking an empty classroom, since we can’t use the Room of Requirement.” His face stiffened. Damn it––she had sworn to herself she wouldn’t mention that. 

“Second floor?” He said. 

She nodded. 

They set off in unison, an uncomfortable silence reigning between them. They went up the steps and through the hall and up a moving staircase and past some classrooms and into an empty one and finally Draco said, “I was hoping we could start with the Charms spellwork.” 

Hermione considered this. “Did you do the Charms reading?” 

Draco nodded and flipped open his bookbag. He slammed two scrolls full of cramped, neat handwriting onto the nearest desk. “My notes.” He rifled through his bag and pulled out another couple of scrolls. “My Potions notes.” He reached in again and dumped several charts and grids on top of these. “My Arithmancy notes.” 

Hermione was momentarily stunned into silence. “You actually did all the reading,” she said, awe shining in her voice. 

He nodded, lips tight. “I’ve done nothing else today. I was so behind I had to catch up on First Term, too. Do you know how stressful it is to have forgotten everything you’d already learned? I got through all of it until the part where I left school. You should be impressed.” 

Hermione felt an odd rush of warmth. “I am impressed.” 

He looked at her sharply. “Good.” 

She stared back at him for a moment, and then he shook back his sleeve and pulled out his wand. 

“Where do we begin?” 

* * *

Hermione was thrilled to find that teaching Draco was a very different experience from her years of teaching Ron and Harry. He picked up several of the spells on the first try, but insisted on practicing until he could execute them perfectly. He was also tireless, and after a couple of hours when she was hungry for dinner he shook his head and said they weren’t going. He snapped his fingers and an instant later one of the Hogwarts house-elves appeared. 

“Pitsy!” Hermione exclaimed, fairly certain she recognized this particular elf’s enormous blue eyes and tea-stained pillowcase. 

The elf smiled at her then looked nervously back at Draco. “Mistress! Will Master and Miss be wanting to take their supper in here?” 

“Yes we would,” said Draco, then caught Hermione glaring at him and added, looking at her, “Please. Only if it’s no trouble.” 

“None at all!” Pitsy squeaked, swooping into a low bow. “Pitsy is happy to serve!” She snapped her fingers and vanished, leaving Draco and Hermione glaring at one another in awkward silence. 

“You don’t like house-elves,” said Draco finally, his tone accusing. 

“I don’t approve of enslaving them,” Hermione countered, crossing her arms. 

Draco crossed his arms and glared back at her. “It’s not any trouble for her to send us plates here instead of the Great Hall.” 

Just then a magnificent-smelling spread of beef stew and roasted vegetables and chocolate cake appeared on one of the desks. 

“I guess not,” said Hermione tightly, a little swayed by her hunger and the smell of the soup. 

Draco nodded and crossed to the table. “Now we can keep going while we eat. Where were we?” 

* * *

It was well after dinner by the time they had finished the Charms spellwork, but the last one was a mood-boosting charm. It felt odd to aim her wand at Draco and watch him suddenly burst into a joyous, unconcerned grin, but then he did it back and suddenly all her worries about the schedule and the need to take a stand on house-elf rights melted away. They wound up leaning back in the chairs as far as they would go because it felt funny to stare up at the ceiling, and then they both crashed backward into the floor and collapsed into laughter. It didn’t really hurt to fall down under the effects of the spell. 

Hermione turned to look at Draco, who was quite sprawled out on the floor, laughing like he had no intention of getting back up soon. 

“I’m glad you came back,” she said. 

He turned and looked back at her, his piercing gray eyes sober for a moment. “Thank you for asking me to,” he said. 

The spell wore off and it was late now, but they still had to get through Potions. Those spells related to chopping and stirring, so they practiced on the remnants of the beef stew. She was finding Draco to be a very attentive student. He didn’t try and make small talk. 

They got through the last bit of Potions spellwork that could be done without actually brewing a potion––she had allotted time for that on the schedule on Wednesday––and Draco sank back onto one of the chairs, exhausted. A faint smile was playing around his lips. 

“That was quite a night,” he said finally, looking rather proud of himself. 

Hermione frowned. “We haven’t gotten through half of this yet.” She let her hands fall heavily onto the study schedule she had drawn up for that day, which had them getting through all of the Arithmancy spells from Fall Term on top of the Potions content and the Charms work. She grimaced. “We’re _already_ behind.” 

Draco peered from a distance at the study schedule. “I’m down to put in a few more hours if you are,” he said. “I mean, I don’t want to impose on you getting enough sleep, but you’re right, we have only covered two subjects.” 

Hermione sighed and started piling the books back into the bag. “We can definitely continue. I just don’t want to get caught out in the halls after hours, and I hate studying in the Eighth Year Common Room. Everyone’ll be there, and it’ll be loud and they’ll be staring at us.” 

He shrugged. “The Eighth Year Quarters are a bit cramped, but I’m fine with it if you are.” 

She slung the bookbag over her shoulder and stood there a moment, pondering. The bag weighed heavily on her and she realized her back was aching. “It’ll do. It’s just such close quarters, I guess because there’s so few of us.” 

He frowned and started walking out of the room. “Well, that’s part of it, I suppose. But I don’t really mind the one bedroom and the smaller bathroom; it’s more that there’s just the Common Room besides. There’s no detached study rooms and I don’t get why it hasn’t got a library.” 

“A library?” Hermione repeated, her tone automatically excited. “Why should it have a library?” 

Draco frowned. “They’ve all got libraries, haven’t they? All the proper Houses?” 

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Gryffindor hasn’t.” 

His face lit up in shock and delight and he stopped in his tracks. “No.” 

She frowned. “And Slytherin has?” 

“Of course!” Draco resumed walking. “It’s been there for centuries. The Malfoy family has always maintained a small study library for the Slytherin students. I mean, my father alone has donated dozens of volumes––” 

Hermione burst out laughing. “Of course he has.” 

He looked at her sharply, as if trying to gauge what her reaction meant. “They’re study volumes, supplemental textbooks…” 

“It’s brilliant. I love it.” She trotted ahead to keep up with his long strides. “Show me.” 

“What?” 

“Prove it.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t believe you.” 

He took up the challenge at once, turning abruptly on his heel to lead her down a side passage to some stairs. 

Slytherin turned out to be accessible from a portrait in a small passage in the dungeons. Draco whispered the password, and the door swung open. 

The first thing she saw was a green carpet, with warm yellow light reflecting off silver lamps and paperweights. 

“After you,” said Draco, bowing her in with a gentlemanly nod. 

Hermione crossed the threshold, stepping into a wide round room consisting of two seating areas, the second one down a slight level from the first and accessible by a flight of only two or so steps. Both areas were ringed by cushioned benches and flanked by ancient-looking high-backed armchairs, but the lower level also included a number of mahogany study tables with wood chairs and everlasting candles stuck to the middle. 

Hermione’s attention was immediately drawn to the far right wall, which was made entirely of glass. Flickering green light passed in and bounced off every surface. Beyond the glass she could just make out what looked like reeds swaying gently back and forth. 

“The lake,” said Draco, who noticed she was looking. “It’s a real window. Sometimes the Merpeople swim by and visit. If the Triwizard Tournament had featured a Slytherin champion, they wouldn’t have had any trouble from the Merpeople.” There was a note of bitterness to this statement, and Hermione looked at him warily, wondering if he was sore that Harry had been champion and not him. 

“I don’t see any books,” she said finally, shifting uncomfortably under the steady gaze of the only other person in the room––a pigtailed First Year girl who was staring at her unblinkingly over the top of her homework. 

Draco laughed. “It’s down this way.” 

He led her through the first seating area, down the steps to the second, and down another three steps to a stone floor lined with green Persian rugs. To the right the hallway curved past the vast window to what she supposed must be one set of dorms, and it also unfolded straight in front of them to a cavernous hallway lined with doors. 

“The girls’ dorms are that way,” said Draco, pointing past the window. He led her into the hallway that was in front of them. “The boys’ rooms are down here, past all the study rooms.” 

He pushed the first door to the left about halfway open, enough to show her a small room ringed with sagging bookshelves. A number of hostile eyes turned on them both at once, fixing on Hermione. Draco gave a shy wave that no one returned and pulled the door shut again. 

“That’ll be a study group,” he said apologetically. “They’re often in there in the evenings, but it’s a bit unpredictable when, unfortunately. But there are other rooms we can use.” 

He opened another door and Hermione frowned as she stepped inside. It wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. There was a long, burnished oval wooden table running the length of the room, with a number of high-backed chairs around it. It looked rather like a––

“This is our conference room,” said Draco smoothly. He strode in, dumped his bag on the table, and took a seat about halfway down. “We can study in here.” 

Hermione followed him gingerly in and set her bag on the table. She looked around. There was something eerie about the room, but she couldn’t place what. 

Draco was already up and had a bit of chalk in his hand. He pulled out one of his arithmancy charts and starting writing out a managing equation on one of the four blackboards that ringed the walls. 

“What is this room for?” Hermione asked, still not ready to sit down. 

Draco was busily scratching out numbers onto the blackboard. “Oh, study groups, clubs; you know.” He tapped the equation with his wand and a matrix chart of numbers appeared in shimmering gold letters beneath it. “Did I do that right?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione felt suddenly very tired. She pulled back one of the chairs––they were all narrow and high-backed and upholstered in leather––and sank into it. “Clubs?” 

Draco was dragging the numbers from box to box in the chart using the tip of his wand. Each time he did so, the equation he had written changed its values. “Yeah. We have loads of social clubs in Slytherin. There’s a Blind Tasting Society––Pansy started that one, for wine; the Lyceum club for debate about topics we’ve covered in History of Magic; loads of other study groups. Crabbe and Goyle used to vanish the furniture and use the room to try and learn boxing.” 

“Boxing?” Hermione started pulling out her books and materials. “Were they any good at it?” 

Draco laughed. “Hardly. Snape had to come shut it down when he found out membership wasn’t voluntary. They were in detention for _months….”_

Hermione frowned a little, picturing Crabbe and Goyle dragging in unsuspecting students with whom they had a beef. “Serves them right.” 

“Yeah.” Draco stepped back from the blackboard to get a better look at his number chart. “So the spell that I wasn’t able to get earlier was the one where it’s all gone polynomial.” 

Hermione stood up and joined him at the blackboard. “That’s because we started having two charts. They balance each other.” She copied his chart and moved the two parallel, then borrowed the chalk to rewrite the equations. “So we control these with the series of spells in Chapter Three.” 

Draco’s eyes were wide. “OH. See, I didn’t get that from the notes.” 

Hermione shrugged and continued balancing the equations. “Problems of having a textbook from the sixteenth century, am I right?” 

Draco was still watching her progress with some awe. “Yeah, someone should really rewrite that thing.” 

Hermione finished setting up the board for him and resumed her seat. “Now try the Chapter Three spells.” 

Draco picked up a list he had made off that chapter and started consulting it, murmuring spells under his breath. 

“You should try them nonverbally,” said Hermione. “We all started doing that in January.” 

“Class must have become much quieter.” Draco screwed up his face in concentration. 

“You could hear a pin drop.” 

He got the numbers to shift and broke into a relieved smile. 

“Brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed from her seat. “See, if you can get them all memorized, and all nonverbal, you’ll be a shoo-in for the N.E.W.T.” 

Draco wiped his brow. “It’s a lot more effort.” 

Hermione shrugged. 

Draco went through a couple more spells, managing to do most of them nonverbally, although several devolved into muttering, then lowered his wand, looking spent and pensive. 

“You know, it wasn’t always study clubs in here,” he said. 

“Oh?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “What was it?” 

Draco bit his lip. He looked like he was simultaneously dying to tell her and regretting saying anything at all. “It’s where You-Know-Who had the first Death Eater meetings,” he said finally. 

_“Oh,”_ said Hermione, momentarily stunned. She leaned back, then sat up straight like she had been stung as soon as her back touched the leather of the seat. How had she not seen that coming? This was _Slytherin,_ after all; and there was something very off-putting about the room itself. 

Draco looked like he was deeply regretting telling her. “I’m sorry,” he said, setting his wand down on the table. “Does that bother you?” 

“Yes. No.” It was very late and she didn’t know how she felt about anything anymore. 

Draco turned away. “You know what, the atmosphere in here is a little oppressive. Can we go study in a Gryffindor study room?” 

“I told you Gryffindor hasn’t got any study rooms,” said Hermione, but she quickly dumped all her materials back in her book bag and slung it over her shoulder. “But the Common Room should be deserted this time of night. We can go there. I’ve still got the password.” 

“Great,” said Draco, his face showing his relief. He was packed up too, now. “Lead the way.” 

Hermione did, walking out through the Common Room, which was now quite deserted, past the dancing green light from the window into the lake, out of the dungeon entrance and up the stairs. She began to feel better and better the higher up they went and the more distance they put between themselves and that horrible room. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, after they had walked through half the castle in silence. “That must have been very uncomfortable for you.” 

“It was,” Hermione admitted. She fell silent for another minute. “But I did like the little library.” 

“Me too,” said Draco, and she could tell from the warmth that filled his voice that he must have spent a great deal of time in there. “Has Gryffindor really not got a study library?” 

“It hasn’t,” said Hermione, shrugging her shoulders. “I quite wish it had. I was forever lugging books back to my room.” 

“You mean to tell me you had to walk to the big library all seven years of school?” 

His voice sounded so appalled that she burst out laughing. “Yes, I did. Every day. Say, is this why you were almost never in the big library?” 

Draco nodded, then shook his head gleefully. “Oh my god, Hermione. That hat put you in the wrong house!” 

“What, are you calling me a Slytherin?” She shoved him playfully on the shoulder, and was at once all too aware that he had very nice shoulders. 

“Ravenclaw, at least,” said Draco, still grinning. “C’mon, how could they put you in a house with no study rooms?” 

“Up so late?” The Fat Lady raised her eyebrows and yawned petitely as they approached her. “What’s he doing here?” She peered at Draco. 

“He’s coming as my friend,” said Hermione firmly. “Pucklechurch.” 

“He’s not a Gryffindor,” said the Fat Lady, ignoring her. “And you’re out awfully late.” 

“Yes, yes, and we’ll be back out again in a minute,” said Hermione, advancing impatiently. “Now _Pucklechurch.”_

“Oh, all right.” The Fat Lady rolled her eyes and swung open. Hermione clambered in and Draco followed after. 

“So this is it,” she said after she was out of the portrait hole, straightening up and turning around. 

“Very red,” said Draco, looking about and nodding his approval. “Do the windows show the outside?” 

“Yeah, they’re real,” said Hermione, leading him in the direction of the large window alcove. “We’re pretty high up, too; it’s an excellent view when there’s light out.” 

“That’s very nice,” said Draco. “Hey, they have too got books!” He cupped her shoulder and pointed at a messy stack of about six books someone had piled up against a far wall. “You absolute liar.” 

“Oh my god, someone brought those in here,” she said, slapping his hand away gleefully and backing up toward the fire. 

“Hermione?” Asked a familiar voice. 

Hermione whirled around to see Ron standing in front of the fire, his wand in his hand. All the breath left her at once. 

“Ron!” She managed to gasp, and smiled, feeling suddenly very aware of what he must be thinking. She hurried over to him and got on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips, which he didn’t fully return. “What are you doing here?” 

“I got called in for an emergency curse repair,” said Ron, pointing at the fireplace. “Migrating stonework issue from the battle.” 

“Oh, what a lovely surprise to see you,” said Hermione, clutching his wrists and trying to get him to smile, but he was still looking past her at Draco. 

“What are you doing here so late?” He asked, and she wasn’t sure which of them he was addressing. She stepped back, dropping her hold on his wrists. 

“Studying,” she answered. 

“Studying?” He wrinkled his brow, then shook a pocket watch out of his sleeve but didn’t open it. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Hermione. I wasn’t going to wake you because I didn’t think you’d be up.” 

“Sorry,” she said, frowning. “I guess we sort of lost track of time. There’s about a million Arithmancy exercises to get through.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Ron, brushing his hand through his hair. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or just surprised. “Arithmancy. So what’ve you brought him here for?” He gestured finally at Draco.

Hermione glanced at him. He was standing a few feet back, toward the windows, and looked a little on the spot. “We were studying in the Slytherin dorms, and he wouldn’t believe me when I said Gryffindor hadn’t got a library.” 

“And Slytherin has?” Ron frowned. “I’ve been in Slytherin; it hasn’t got a library.” 

“When were you—?” Draco looked confused. 

Hermione cut him off. “It’s off to the side through a portrait. Slytherin has got loads of study rooms, actually. They’ve even got a conference room.” 

“Like for meetings?” Ron wrinkled his nose. 

“Yeah. It’s actually where...where Voldemort started the Death Eaters,” said Hermione, her color rising. 

“But we were just in there for the blackboard,” Draco cut in. “Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s. It’s a bit difficult to visualize if you haven’t got a...visual aid.” 

“Yes, and none of the empty classrooms have got available blackboards at this time of evening,” said Ron sardonically.

“We didn’t want to get caught out by Filch,” Hermione cut in, crossing her arms. 

“Right. So what were you going to do, sleep in Slytherin?” There was a heavy accusation behind his eyes. 

“Obviously not,” said Hermione, quite heated. “We were going to sleep in our own dorm, just after––” 

Ron glared past her at Draco. “Well, why don’t you just conference yourself back to Slytherin, eh, mate?” 

Draco looked to Hermione. 

“Maybe you’d best get back now,” she said to him, heart sinking. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Draco nodded. “G’night. Thanks for everything.” He gave her a wave and stepped out of the portrait hole. 

Hermione whirled to face Ron. “There is _nothing_ going on,” she hissed. 

Ron glared down at her from his impressive height. “Defensive, much? I didn’t say there was.” 

“Well, you were implying loads.” 

“What’s he doing back here? Why are you _helping_ him?” 

“I couldn’t just let him fail; it would be an offense against learning.” Hermione crossed her arms. 

“An offense against—” Ron gave a hollow laugh. “Why should he deserve to pass? If he’s so brilliant, let him figure it out on his own!” 

“It’s less than three weeks to the end of term,” Hermione retorted. “Even I’m not sure I could pull that off without some guidance.” 

“Fat load of guidance you’re giving him, eh?” Ron jerked his thumb at the portrait hole. 

“Oh, bugger off.” Hermione’s arms jerked angrily back to her sides as she turned to face him. “I’m the only reason you’ve got any O.W.L.s.” 

“Yeah, and what’s he gonna do with his N.E.W.T.s?” Ron demanded, fury screwing up his face. “Become an Auror? See the light?” 

“He’s going to become a barrister,” Hermione spat, “and take on charity cases.” 

“Oh-hoh-hoh.” Ron’s eyebrows shot up mirthlessly. “I can see why you like him.” 

“I don’t _like_ him, Ronald!” Hermione stomped her foot on the carpet. “Stop seeing a story where there isn’t one!” 

Ron frowned. An awkward silence took hold. She glared up at him, lower lip trembling with rage, and he glared down at her. 

Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think we should see each other right now.” 

She wasn’t quite comprehending. “What?” 

“I mean, I don’t think we should _see_ each other. You’ve changed, Hermione. I don’t know who you are anymore. I want to break up.” 

There was a rushing of blood and a pounding in her ears. The room suddenly seemed distant and surreal, and when she spoke her voice didn’t sound like her own. “Break...up?” 

“Yeah.” Ron bit his lip and looked away. “It sucks, you know? But I just can’t...I just don’t see the point of this right now.” 

“Ron, if this is about Malfoy––” 

“It’s about a lot of things.” He kissed her on the lips––she flinched and took it. It was a hard, loveless peck. “Goodbye, Hermione.” 

The portrait hole closed and the last she saw of him was the hem of his Auror robes whipping along behind him.


	16. Awfully Detained

The room swayed dangerously in her vision and she thought for a second she might pass out. Ron _couldn’t_ break up with her––there was a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, like the bottom had dropped out of the world. It was the same feeling she got when her parents scolded her or Snape put her down in class or she did something else wrong. 

She lurched across the room like it was the deck of a ship in a storm, all off balance, her legs like jelly, and seized on to the portrait hole to propel herself outside. 

She looked around wildly in the hall, trying to assess which way Ron had gone. 

“Dear me, you’re the one he’s ending things with?” 

Hermione whirled around to see the Fat Lady peering at her through opera glasses. “You heard?” She demanded breathlessly. 

The portrait didn’t answer; she just shook her head and made a tutting sound. “You were the ones who kissed in the battle.” 

Hermione nodded, frowning. “Do you lot just hang around and spy on us all day?” 

The Fat Lady smiled enigmatically. “Word gets around, Miss Granger. Still, a terrible shame. That was so romantic; the talk of the summer…” 

Hermione was looking up and down the hallway in both directions. 

“He went to the right,” the Fat Lady chimed in helpfully. “He says he’s through with you. But he seemed on the verge of weeping, so who knows these things, really?” She took a genteel sip from a wine glass on her vine-draped table. “That other boy likes you too, you know.” 

“What?” Hermione wasn’t really listening. She was already running down the hall to the right. If Ron really was distressed about this, then perhaps––perhaps she hadn’t been thrown away; perhaps she could still make it right––

“I said, that other boy likes you too, you know!” The Fat Lady yelled after her. The words flowed past her ears like water. 

“Ron!” She yelled with abandon. _“Ron!”_ She had to reach him, just _had_ to… 

She gasped as a stitch manifested in her side, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on, feet slapping on the floor. _“Ron!”_

She swore she just barely heard something in the distance, heard the echo of his voice calling her name back, but she rounded a corner and her vision was all at once swallowed up in a very large overcoat, which she promptly crashed into. 

“Ow,” she moaned, then looked up, and swore loudly. It was, of course, Filch’s overcoat, and Filch was inside it, leering down at her. 

“Out of bounds? After hours?” His stubbly lip curled into a sneer. “This merits a detention, doesn’t it?” 

“No, please,” she gasped, staring down the hall. “Ron; I have to get to Ron…” 

“Fifty points from Gryffindor!” Filch crowed. 

Hermione groaned. “Who _cares?”_ She pushed herself to her feet and lunged past him. 

Filch’s face lost all shape as it puddled into a mess of frustration. He threw out his arm, catching her clear in the chest at a speed which knocked some of the wind out of her. 

“My office, now. Or do you want to keep testing the Headmistress’s patience?” 

He had a tight grip on her wrist. She heard the great door shut in the distance. Ron would be gone now, crossing the grounds with great strides, Apparating away from here. 

Filch was grumbling cheerily, something about thinking she might have gone all eight years without any detentions even though he _knew_ she _had_ to be breaking the rules, but wouldn’t luck have it, he’d woken up at this ungodly hour in need of the loo. 

Hermione filed along miserably, only half-listening. It felt like cataracts had fallen out of her eyes, like the fog she had lived the last nine or eleven months in had dropped away, but too late; like a February morning where the sun is bright but all that accomplishes is to show off just how dead and frozen everything has gotten. 

What on earth had she been thinking, gallivanting around the castle at half past two in the morning with Draco Malfoy? And what on earth had possessed her to not say a word about it to Ron in advance? Why hadn’t she cared what he thought? 

She was starting to feel weirdly awake as Filch led her into the depressing underground dump he called an office. Warped filing cabinets were stacked left and right, with piles of meticulous notes on yellowing parchment. Odd-smelling moisture hung in the air. 

“Sit,” Filch demanded. He rummaged around one of the filing cabinets for a quill and parchment and plunked them on the table in front of her. “Write.” 

She looked up at him. She could feel the skin of her brows as she tightened them into a scowl. She scowled harder, finding a weird pleasure in it. “Write what?” 

_“I will never amount to anything,”_ he barked. “A hundred times.” 

She locked her eyes onto his. She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. “No,” she said. 

“Then we’ll stay right here until you do,” said Filch stubbornly, fixing her with his watery brown eyes. He probably had real cataracts. 

Hermione leaned back in the wobbly wooden chair and crossed her arms. “Okay.” 

She glared at him, and he glared at her. He plonked down onto an old stool without shifting his gaze and continued to stare her down. 

She rolled her eyes and broke off eye contact. 

There was a clock behind Filch’s head. It was bizarrely out of place. It was clearly non-magical—it was blue, and plastic, and the tips of the arrows were shaped like little humming birds. It scratched along with an audible _click, click, click_ every second that passed. 

She started counting the clicks. She counted five hundred and seventy-two clicks before the thoughts started coming. 

Poor Ron. His face kept flashing in her mind’s eye, sad, disappointed. The memory of all the roses she had sent wore on her, and her heart ached. He’d kept trying, and waiting, and giving…. 

Poor Ginny, for that. Ginny’d gotten onto the Holyhead Harpies, and Hermione had been so frustrated that she wasn’t allocating time to study for her N.E.W.T.s that she had barely even congratulated her. What kind of a friend did that make her? 

Poor Draco. She was helping him, sure; but she could probably stand to be nicer to him while she was doing it. And poor Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley, for that matter; she’d been so turned off by their judgmental attitude toward her and Draco at the beginning of last term that they were hardly even friends anymore. And they were such lovely people, really; just hurting. 

Ron was back again. The way she’d run to him in the forest when he’d come back; the anger she’d felt and the intense, deep relief…Oh, she got angry at Ron, angrier than she ever got at anybody, but at the end of the day he always came back and that was what mattered. 

She almost smiled, almost knew everything was going to be okay, but then there was another click from the clock and she looked at it and she remembered another face. 

It was a gentle face, creased with soft lines. It looked a lot like her own, but older, and it was tilted up at her, and it was saying “Please.” 

It was the last word her mother had spoken to her. _“Grab me a biscuit, won’t you,”_ she had said, eyes fixed on the telly. Then she had tilted her head up and smiled and added, _“Please.”_

Hermione had returned the smile, had gone to the kitchen, had even picked up the biscuit. But then she set it down again, hands trembling, because now was the moment. It was now or never, before she lost her nerve. 

She took a deep breath to steady herself and slid her wand out of her sleeve. She had crept back out of the kitchen, moving slowly, quietly enough that they didn’t look up. 

She’d held her wand up; aimed it straight at their heads. The world had seemed to slow to a halt in that instant. It was the kind of moment that freezes forever, the kind that you stick at when you’re sitting in someone’s office with nothing to do but listen to your thoughts. She’d done her father first. 

_“Obliviate,”_ she’d whispered, and the spell shot in a tiny yellow spark into the back of her father’s head. 

_“Obliviate.”_ The spark shot out again, hanging in the air. 

_“Obliviate.”_ There was no taking it back once it was cast. That was the awful thing about magic. 

_“Obliviate.”_

The moment kept rewinding. She looked around the office, trying to concentrate on something else. There were stacks of paper. Filch was still scowling at her. What _was_ that smell… 

_“Obliviate.”_ She remembered the awful moment when her father had turned, scratching his head, and looked at her with eyes that didn’t know who she was. 

_“Obliviate.”_

_“Obliviate.”_

She shuddered restlessly in the chair, trying to think of something else. She’d broken Ron’s heart; she was a soulless bitch—

 _“Obliviate.”_ There’d been nothing for it then but to do the same to her mother. Finish the job. 

_“Obliviate.”_ She couldn’t look into her mother’s eyes. She couldn’t see those blue eyes without the love they had for her; couldn’t stand them without the recognition…

 _“Obliviate.”_ But she had. 

And the clock on the wand was still going on, too fast now, tormenting her with its merciless _click click click…_

She glanced wildly around the room, but she couldn’t get the back of her father’s head out of her mind, and now she was thinking of Ron’s head, too. She had to get out, she had to get out of this goddamn dungeon, but there was only one way out of the bloody room––

She shoved herself forward and seized the quill and began to write. 

_I will never amount to anything, I will never amount to anything, I will never amount to anything._

How very prescient of Filch. She wasn’t brilliant. She would never manage to invent a spell to bring back memories. It was like trying to raise the dead; it was hubris to even think of it. 

_I will never amount to anything. I will never amount to anything. I will never amount to anything._

She was no genius, she was just the cold shell of a person with some brains in it. No heart. Obviously. People with hearts didn’t treat people like Ron the way she had. 

_I will never amount to anything._ Her neat handwriting was deteriorating into an angry scrawl. She shoved the tip of the quill harder into the paper. The ink bubbled out the tip. She scratched words out of the puddle, but then the ink spread and drowned the scratches. She dipped the pen back into the inkwell, soaking up more blackness. _I will never amount to anything._

It was illegible now, and it looked like her soul. _I will never amount to anything. I will never—_

“That’s enough,” said Filch suddenly, his voice tearing through the silence and breaking up the awful monotony of the ticking clock. She looked up. He hadn’t moved, but she noticed for the first time the heavy bags under his eyes. 

He moved toward her with a single stride and crumpled up the paper. He tossed it, still wet, into the wastebasket. The ink soaked through the parchment like a bloodstain. 

“Much as I regret it, I can’t keep you out of bed all night,” he said. “That would be too close to what you wanted, eh?” 

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she didn’t. 

A moment passed. “You can go,” he said finally, jerking a hand in the direction of the door. “Get out of here. Let me get some shut-eye. Blimey, students these days, so selfish and inconsiderate…” 

Hermione ran out of the office, ran down the corridors, ran to the Entrance Hall and out of the great wooden door into the crisp dark night. She ran and she called his name, but by then he was long gone. 

She slunk back to bed.


	17. Backwash

The next morning Hermione woke up with her eyes red and her mouth dry and an empty feeling in her stomach. She sent a note to Ron via the owlery and then sat dully through her classes waiting for his response. 

Word had gotten around, apparently, because Ginny had snuck into the Eighth Year Common Room and was waiting for her when she got back from her classes. 

“Are you all right?” She asked, leaping up as soon as Hermione came in and meeting her with a hug. 

“Sort of,” said Hermione. Bless the girl. She hugged her tightly. 

Ginny pulled away to get a look at Hermione’s face. “He doesn’t mean it, you know,” she said earnestly. “He’s just being emotional. He’s just trying to get a reaction out of you, see if you care.” 

Hermione’s lower lip trembled just slightly. “I _did_ react. I ran after him; I sent him a letter; he hasn't said anything….” 

Ginny’s face fell but she tried to keep it up. “I’m sure he just needs a little space,” she said. “He’ll come to his senses. You should ambush him at the Burrow or something.” 

Hermione nodded, not able to say anything. 

Ginny held her again. “It’ll be all right,” she said tenderly. She palmed something to Hermione, and she looked down at her hand to see a little square of chocolate. 

Hermione grinned and shyly took a bite. 

“You guys were meant for each other,” said Ginny gently. “Although, I don’t understand how you put up with him sometimes, to be perfectly honest. Like this is very childish of him, ignoring you right now.” 

Hermione shrugged. “I’ve been really distant, I guess.” 

Ginny shrugged. “You’ve both had loads to think about these past few months,” she said. “Lots changed. Even with me and Harry, it’s just hard to be together when one of you is out in the real world and you don’t have school in common anymore. Relationships change. I guess sometimes they fall apart.” 

Hermione looked at the floor. The whole world seemed bleak and hopeless, save for the little bright corner of her mouth where she was still munching on a bit of chocolate. 

Ginny took a breath and put on a smile. “Well,” she said cheerily, “I don’t think you two are one that’s going to stay broken apart. You’ll just have to slowly stitch yourselves back together.” 

“Thank you,” said Hermione earnestly. She meant it, and she tried to replace the first thoughts that had sprung to mind— _that sounds like a lot of hard work._ Hard work was good, wasn’t it? She was very good at working. She took a great deal of pride in accomplishing hard things. 

Ginny was still looking at her tenderly. “Do you want me to hang around a bit, so you don’t have to be alone?” 

Hermione shook her head. “Thank you; that really means a lot. I’ll see you later, though—I’m late for studying.” 

* * *

Draco was waiting for her outside the Great Hall at four in the afternoon just as if nothing had changed. When she saw him, she felt a weight in her chest. Should something have changed? But then, she hadn’t been lying; her intentions with helping Draco had been pure. He shouldn’t have to suffer the loss of his education just because she and Ron were having problems. 

He had on a light blue knit sweater. It looked comfy, like the kind of sweater you use as a pillow against a cold train window. 

He grinned when he saw her and stifled a yawn. “Late night?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione looked past him at the stone wall. “I didn’t sleep a wink. Let’s get going, shall we?” 

She led him up the hall and up the stairs and through another hall and up more stairs. Each footfall was like a drum in her ears, beating the rhythm of Ron’s voice. _“Break up, break up, break up, break up…”_

The death march ended at the old second Charms classroom, which was reliably empty. All the furniture hadn’t been touched in decades and was covered in dusty sheets, giving the room an eerie, ghastly sort of atmosphere. It suited her mood perfectly. 

“Right,” she said, spinning on her heel to face Draco. She crossed her arms authoritatively. “Let’s start with Chapter Four. These lessons just cost me my relationship, so you’d better pay attention.” 

“What?” Draco looked shocked and concerned. “They’ve done what, now?” 

“What I said,” she mumbled. “Never mind. Chapter Four.” 

Draco was still staring at her with that intense look on his face. “Ron broke up with you?” 

Hermione scowled. “I said, never mind. And since when do you call him Ron?” 

“What do you want me to call him, Weaselby?” Draco crossed his arms rather indignantly. “You’re obviously upset right now; I didn’t think insults would help.” 

“Well, thanks,” muttered Hermione. “Don’t call him Weasel-anything. He’s not.” 

Draco looked at her coldly, but the only thing he said was, “Are you okay?” 

A rush of emotions swept over her like the sort of wave that knocks you down and spins you and spits you out with saltwater in your mouth. She sat down abruptly on one of the sheeted benches, reeling, trying to blink back whatever was in her eyes. 

Draco’s demeanor softened in an instant. “You’re not okay.” He sat down across from her, too far away to touch but close enough to be present. 

Hermione swallowed, with some difficulty, and then shook her head. It was no use denying it. 

“I know a little about these things,” he said, awkwardly, after a moment. “With Pansy. It’s hard. And you feel sort of––” 

“Condemned?” The word slipped out of her lips, her best attempt at summing up the raging, swirling, stabbing feelings. 

Draco blinked and looked away, thinking. “Sort of? I suppose...I was just going to say horrible, but yours is a bit more descriptive.” 

Hermione sniffed weakly. “I feel horrible, too.” 

Draco nodded sympathetically. “Bereft. Alone.” His voice caught in his throat and those bright gray eyes fixed on her again. “But you’re not alone.” He looked away and covered his mouth with his hand. 

“Thank you,” Hermione managed in a voice so small it could have been a whisper. 

Draco nodded, still keeping his eyes away from her, now moving his foot about in a restless, unconscious way. “I don’t think studying will help.” 

Hermione shook her head and sat up straighter. “I think it’s the only thing that might.” 

Draco looked back at her in some surprise, but then he stood up. “All right. In that case, let’s get to it. Chapter Four.” 

Studying wasn’t the panacea she usually found it, but she was able to help Draco master the art of human Transfiguration, and maybe that was enough. It did make her feel a little better to spend half the evening as a table. 

* * *

Hermione followed Ginny’s advice later that night. She snuck out of the grounds, Apparated to the Burrow, and knocked on the door. She could hear footsteps in the house, and finally the door was answered by a very cross-looking Molly Weasley in curlers and a dressing gown. 

“Yes?” She demanded, pulling the ends of her dressing gown tighter against the cold. 

“Is Ron here?” Hermione felt like a little kid, shivering, hopeful. 

Mrs. Weasley’s face softened just a little. “No, dear,” she said. “I’m afraid he’s gone out.” 

“Oh.” Hermione looked down at her shoes. They were shabby and beat-up; age-old oxfords she’d bought years ago that pinched her toes anymore. 

“Can I pass on a message for you?” Mrs. Weasley asked, after a moment. 

“Oh. Er…yes, please,” said Hermione. “Would you tell him…tell him I say I’m sorry, and I miss him, and I do care.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes gentle now. Hermione wondered what Ron had said to his family. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, and turned away. Mrs. Weasley bade her a good night and shut the door. 

Hermione stepped away from the house, far enough to look up the crooked walls to Ron’s window, second from the very top. Sure enough, it was dark. 

She Apparated back to school.


	18. The Auror Department

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies! September was quite a month irl, but I got a lot of writing done at least, so here's my biggest update yet - hope you enjoy!

Study sessions with Draco progressed at a breakneck pace. Late nights were out, so they quickly added in early mornings to keep up with the schedule she had drawn up. They would wake up at five in the morning, Draco would get tea or coffee from the house elves, and they’d head to an empty classroom or to the grounds, which were warmer now. They would practice as the sun came up, then Hermione would go to class and Draco would take a nap before studying. 

He was spending all day with his nose in a book, though she caught him a couple of times going for a run around the grounds. He said it was to help stay awake. 

After class they’d meet in the Potions classroom, then head to another empty classroom for other remaining work. 

At first Hermione had tried to block off extra time for her own studying, most of it after midnight, but after just a couple of days she realized she was learning more from explaining things to Draco than she was from reviewing her carefully-taken notes. 

She had gone to the Ministry to try and intercept Ron at the Auror office, but his tiny cubicle was empty. All she found was Harry, shin-deep in balled up drafts of another strategy proposal. He leaned over his latest draft to cover it as she came in.

“Hey,” she said. She asked after Ron.

Harry seemed happy to see her, if a little shifty. “I’m…” he dropped his voice and waved her closer. “I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but Ron’s out of the country. For work. It’s top secret.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. There was an awkward pause. “So that’s why he hasn’t been answering my messages?”

“That’s most of it,” said Harry. His eyes darted guiltily. “Listen, Hermione, I’m so sorry about all this. I know I’m rubbish with this sort of thing, but I really hope—”

“It’s okay,” Hermione assured him gently. “Thanks for letting me know. I was feeling really blown off.”

And the days, which were agonizing and dripping in regret at first, began to pass faster and faster, until the three weeks were up. It was the night before N.E.W.T.s, and she still hadn’t heard anything from Ron.

“I think you’re ready,” she said to Draco finally, lowering her wand after a marathon dueling session.

He let his arm fall. There were dark circles under his eyes and the way he carried himself suggested he could fall asleep on a train station floor if he let himself, but the old pride was back in his stance and there was light in his eyes again.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

“Anytime,” said Hermione, picking up the dozens of books and scrolls they had gone through off the desk and shoving them into her bookbag. She gave a little laugh. “You know me; I can’t resist an opportunity to answer school questions. Snape called it showing off.”

“No, I mean it,” he cut in softly. “I don’t know where I’d be right now without you.”

The forced smile fell from her lips, leaving her in honest bemusement. “You’re welcome,” she said. She made to pick up the bookbag.

“No, let me,” he said, stepping forward. “We’re going the same place.”

She hesitated a moment, then slid the strap back off her shoulder and let him take it from her. It was a relief: the bag was so heavy that carrying it made her feel like her shoulder was in imminent danger of becoming separated from the rest of her body.

He gave her a little smile as he tapped both their bags with his wand and they rose in the air. “We are wizards,” he said gently.

Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I forget when I’m tired.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

He laughed and started out the door, the bags trailing in the air behind him like balloons. “I know.”

They walked down the hall. The sun was setting, and it shone through the bubbled glass windows as they went. There was something in the red and gold streaks of light gently bathing the floor that made her feel at peace.

“I’m a little afraid of graduating,” she admitted. It had been on her mind for weeks, but she hadn’t breathed a hint of it to a soul.

Draco looked at her sideways. “Why ever would that be?”

Hermione shrugged a little. She felt small in the castle, but in a good way. “I’m just going to be alone when I’m out there. You’re lucky you have a family.”

“Yeah,” said Draco, in a voice that didn’t sound lucky at all. A moment passed in. “You won’t be alone.”

Hermione blinked, wanting to believe him. “How do you know?”

Draco considered a moment. “You just won’t,” he said. “People won’t let you.”

They had reached the door to the Eighth Year quarters now. Draco gave the password and then waved her in. “After you,” he said.

Hermione stepped through the portrait hole. Sue Li was curled up in an armchair, and Mandy on the couch. Both girls looked up and smiled slightly in greeting as they came in. Draco had hardly been welcomed back with open arms, but in the past few weeks there had been a decrease in the level of open hostility directed his way.

“At least he’s learned to keep his mouth shut,” Hannah had said when Seamus had referenced it.

Draco asked where she wanted her bookbag and directed it to float to the side table she indicated.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Get some sleep,” said Hermione. “It’s the most important thing we can do now, before exams.”

“Yeah, I was going to take a Sleeping Draught and knock out for the next fourteen hours.” Draco waved and disappeared through the door to the boys’ dorm.

Hermione meandered over to her bookbag and pulled out her well-worn copy of The Tales of Beetle the Bard. She chose a chair in the very back of the room, behind the couches from the fireplace, and curled up. She hadn’t had time to read through the old tales for ages, but it would be lovely to disappear into them for a bit…she fell asleep.

When she woke the room was dark save for the light of the flames on the walls. Someone was saying her name from the other end of the room.

“What?” She rubbed her eyes blearily and pushed herself upright.

“Someone’s calling for you in the Floo,” Mandy yelled over.

“What?” Hermione tripped over herself in her haste to get to the fireplace. Maybe it was––she stumbled to her knees and saw Harry’s face in the flames. “Harry! What’s the matter?”

It was hard to tell in the fire, but Harry’s face looked creased with worry. “Hermione, it’s Ron,” he said. “I can’t explain. But you need to get here.”

Hermione’s stomach fell and swooped in the same moment, leaving her with a panicked nausea. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t say here,” said Harry. “But come to Grimmauld Place. Let me step back for a second; you can come through the fire—”

Hermione had not thought of using the Hogwarts fireplaces for travel before, but when Harry’s face vanished from the flames she took a breath and dove in. She was immediately tossed through a network of sooty tunnels of air, tumbling through them like she was out of control on a playground slide. She fell out the other end, landing splayed on the floor of the kitchen at Grimmauld Place.

“Hermione!” Harry pulled her up and seized her in a tight hug. His voice sounded desperate. “C’mon, we’ve got to go—”

“Go where?” She tripped after him, trying to keep up with his long strides and the tight hold he had on her wrist.

“The Ministry,” said Harry. “Department of Mysteries.” He pulled her out of the door and turned on his heel at once, yanking her along in a side-along Apparition.

They rematerialized in the black marble entry hall of the Ministry. It was night time and deserted. Hermione stumbled forward, clutching her stomach—that had been a lot of traveling in a very short amount of time.

“C’mon,” said Harry, speeding up on his way to the lift.

Green flames flashed in one of the atrium fireplaces behind them and Ginny stepped out, a dressing gown over her jeans and a worried expression on her face. Harry waited for her as he called the lift and pulled her into his arms. She leaned up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.

“What’s going on?” Hermione demanded again. “Ginny—you all right? What’s going on with Ron?”

Ginny turned to look at her, fear in her eyes. “We don’t know,” she said. “All we know is—Harry, what was it you said, again?”

The lift arrived just then, and Harry shoved open the gate to let them all inside. He hit the button for the Department of Mysteries. “There was an incident on the stakeout,” he said. “They were tracking Rudolphus Lestrange, in Europe, but then we lost contact with the team. We had to dispatch backups to find them, and when we did—”

The lift shuddered open with an awful metallic grinding that echoed through the long dark hallway.

Harry shook his head. “Come on.”

Hermione followed him as he led the way down the familiar hall, walking to the entrance of the Department of Mysteries. He opened it without hesitation and waited until the interior chamber of spinning doors had come to a halt. He opened one of the doors to the middle left, unfazed.

Hermione stepped after him, beating back memories. Her heart was about to thud out of her chest, and a quick glance at Ginny showed her friend felt the same. They crossed the threshold where Harry had just gone, then her stomach swooped again and she found herself walking on the ceiling. She shrieked involuntarily.

“It’s okay,” said Ginny’s voice, and a hand took hers in the dark. “Harry?”

“Just through here,” said Harry’s voice, and a beam of light grew from a door he was opening at the end of the hallway. They stepped through and the world righted itself again with an awful spin.

Hermione rubbed her eyes, breathing raggedly, straining to get her bearings. There were fuzzy shapes in front of her; it seemed like the room was full of some kind of marshmallow-smelling fog—

“Ron!” The mist cleared from one of the shapes. He was lying, ashen-white, on some kind of large block. She darted towards him, but Harry’s arm caught her, holding her back.

“Don’t!” He said, sharply.

“Why—” Hermione struggled, but then Ron’s eyes popped open. His vision locked on hers and he screamed—an awful, animalistic howl. He jerked away from her.

“What’s going on?” Hermione begged, collapsing into Harry’s arms. He held her tight, reaching out a hand to pull Ginny in closer. Ginny was staring at her brother, shaking.

“He wasn’t poisoned,” said another voice, and a figure strode out of the mist. He was intimidatingly tall, clothed in faded yellow robes that popped bright against his coal-black skin. He wore his hair in twists that went down to his waist. Hermione recognized him as Gordon Williamson, Head of the Auror Department.

Williamson shook his wand out of his sleeve and zapped Ron with some kind of silencing spell, addressing Harry. “I’m sorry for the alarm. It was fast-acting; the others…” He sighed; the heavy, ragged sigh of a leader of fallen soldiers.

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear. What happened to Ron, then…”

Williamson bit down on his lip, looking at Ron. “He, er…he did it to them.”

Ron was awake again, wild-eyed, his mouth moving, but they couldn’t hear anything he was saying.

“What?” Hermione felt Harry reeling behind her.

“He was Imperiused, of course.” Williamson was circling Ron now, jabbing the air with his wand like he was taking some kind of measurements. “By Lestrange. We couldn’t get the curse lifted until we’d killed the sonofabitch. And by then…”

“How bad was it?” Harry asked. His voice had a tremble in it Hermione hadn’t heard before.

“We send them out in teams of four,” said Williamson.

“And…?” Harry’s question hung heavy in the air.

“We got Ron back,” said Williamson finally. “They’d got him under the Imperius curse. Made him poison the others. Lestrange seemed to think it was _funny.”_

Hermione heard Ginny swear hideously under her breath next to her.

“Can I go to him?” Ginny asked after a moment.

Williamson gave a curt nod and made a swooping motion with his wand.

Ginny darted forward and took Ron’s hand in hers. She bent over him, running her fingers through his hair. “Shh, Ron, it’s okay, I’m here, I love you…”

Hermione snaked her hand around Harry’s waist and held onto him, leaning resting her head against his chest until she could feel his heart thumping madly.

Ron was trying to speak again. Williamson waved his wand again, and Ron’s voice came, unnaturally quiet like Williamson was adjusting the dial on a speaker.

“I didn’t mean to do it, I wouldn’t have, I tried so hard, I couldn’t do anything—”

“Shh, shh, I know,” said Ginny, kissing his forehead.

“Did you call the rest of his family?” Williamson turned sharply to Harry.

Harry nodded. “I sent Kreacher; I didn’t have time to go to everybody—”

“I think it’s best you recall him,” said Williamson. “Ron’s not in any physical danger. We should figure out what happened; calm him…”

Harry nodded. “Right.” He gave Hermione a squeeze and stepped out of the room, leaving her alone in the middle of the room and shaking.

Ron had fallen silent now and was listless on the table, crying softly, looking at her. Ginny saw her looking and waved her over.

Hermione stepped up gingerly, bending down.

“It’s okay,” Ginny whispered. “He’s just in shock…”

Hermione took a cold hand in hers. Ron’s shaking subsided a little. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said softly to him, looking at his scared eyes, her heart racing in a way she’d thought she’d never feel again after the war ended. “I’m really glad you made it back.”

Ron looked at her, his bright eyes fearful and tinged with red. “I couldn’t…he made he do it…the remedy was right _there,_ and I couldn’t grab it, I couldn’t lift my own arm…”

“Oh,” Ginny moaned, looking up at Hermione with big brown eyes. “That’s just…that’s just a _nightmare;_ I can’t bear…”

They got Ron calmed down, finally, by whispering to him and stroking him and assuring him it was going to be okay. Hermione conjured up a blanket to cover him and that seemed to help, too.

Harry had returned by then, slipping in with a quiet “Hey” and coming over to gently stroke Ron’s hand.

Ron’s eyes were still wild—maddened, horrified.

Williamson disappeared for a bit and then came back. “We’re going to erase his memory,” he said in a clipped voice when he re-entered the room.

“Erase it?” Hermione looked up, instinctively horrified. “Just…just like it never happened?”

Williamson nodded, but his expression was heavy. “Could you live remembering you’d done something like that?”

Hermione gave a wordless shake of her head.

“We can’t stand to lose one of our best men.” Williamson bent over Ron, who looked up at him, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. “I’ve called in one of our top Legilimens.”

Hermione squeezed Ron’s hand as a small man came in. He looked nondescript; the kind of person your eyes would glaze over if you saw him on the street. Williamson caught him up to speed in a quick, muttered briefing. The man gave a sharp nod and approached the table.

“We need to stand back,” Harry whispered to Hermione and Ginny. Hermione nodded, gave Ron’s hand one last squeeze, and let Harry pull her back to the far wall.

The Legilimens had trained his wand on Ron now and had closed his eyes. Williamson was working with him in some kind of partner spell, swaying gently back and forth as he murmured incantations.

“He won’t forget everything, will he?” Ginny piped up, worried.

Harry shook his head. “It’s a selective forgetting; they’re going through his recent memories. It’s not perfect though, there’ll be a bit of fuzziness around the edges. Random spots of forgetfulness.”

“This is horrible,” Hermione whispered, digging her fingernails into the crooks of her elbows.

“I know.” Harry swallowed. “It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

Hermione looked at him sharply. “You mean…?”

Harry nodded, looking at Ron. “First time for him. But, field work—it’s a nightmare out there, and we’re eternally short-staffed…”

“Have you…?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m to stay at my desk. Minister’s orders. They can’t risk my memory until they’ve finished prosecuting all the Death Eaters.” He made a bitter noise that sounded like a laugh’s distant relative.

“Goddamn,” Hermione whispered under her breath. Her gaze slid back to Ron. They were almost done. She watched him relax, the tension loosen from his shoulders, the madness leave his eyes, until the little man stood up and Ron was just lying there, unconscious and vulnerable.

“They’ll put him in St. Mungo’s for a few days,” Harry whispered. “Come up with a story. Tell him he’s a hero, or a victim, and he barely got away.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I brought you two; I was told he’d been poisoned and we thought he might die…”

The Legilimens was whispering something to Williamson now, who looked sharply over at them.

“You don’t need to erase their memories of this,” Harry cut in, stepping protectively in front of Hermione and Ginny. “They won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Hermione shook her head rapidly, taking a step back.

“See?” Harry stared the men down. “You can trust them. I’ll vouch for them. There’s no need to tamper with what they’ve seen.”

Williamson looked at her and Ginny for a long moment, considering, but he finally let his shoulders droop down. “All right,” he said. “But you can’t breathe a word. Least not to him. It’s too greatly upsetting, when they can remember that there’s something horrible and they can’t place what. We can’t risk it.”

“Of course not,” said Ginny sharply. “We understand.”

Williamson nodded. “Then you can go.”

Harry wasted no time leading them back into the upside-down hallway. “I am so sorry,” he breathed as they walked into the room with the spinning doors. “I should never have brought you. I just panicked—”

Ginny shook her head, her lips tight. “Don’t apologize,” she said, her tone rather harsh. “At least now I know what you lot are putting my brother through. And I could never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t been with him if he’d died; you know that.”

“I do,” said Harry, sounding suddenly years older and exhausted.

Hermione didn’t say anything. She felt tight and angry, and she was trembling, shaking; but there were tears in her eyes too. She let them fall and dry on her cheeks.

* * *

It was morning when she and Ginny stepped out into the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace moments later. Sunlight was streaming through the windows.

Hermione swore loudly. “Shit, the N.E.W.T.’s—”

She and Ginny left the Common Room at a run, bounding down the corridors to the Great Hall. A sign on the door indicated that the first exam, the Transfiguration written test, had just begun. They burst through the door and Ginny gave some mad, hurried apologies to the startled Ministry official.

He nodded rapidly, directing them to take empty seats.

Hermione slid into one of the desks, flustered. The Ministry had provided quills and ink to help cut down on cheating, and she picked the one on the desk up now and dipped it in ink, scratching her name on the front of the test booklet.

She paused. Here she was, finally, sitting in front of the test that had been her number one goal for what felt like an eternity. She needed to get back into that mindset. She took a deep, shuddering breath to try and center herself.

She glanced around the room and caught Draco looking at her. He gave her an easy smile and glanced down at his test booklet, as if to say, _piece of cake, isn’t it?_

Hermione flipped open the page and began.

After Transfiguration was Charms, and after Charms Potions, and then a rushed lunch of tasteless sandwiches before the Practicals in the afternoon. Her head was pounding at that point and lack of sleep had her brain fuzzy. She pressed the House Elves for caffeinated beverages, inhaling coffee and black tea like a machine.

She made it through Practicals, and it wasn’t until she had cast her last Charm (a Worry-Not Charm so strong she had the examiner begging her not to do it twice, they’d never be able to lift it) that she was finally able to breathe. Then all the breath left her like a fizzling balloon, and suddenly she was just a shell in desperate need of sleep. She spared a moment to stumble up to the owlery and fill out a mail order form to have a fruit basket delivered to Ron in St. Mungo’s, and then she didn’t have energy anymore and set a course toward her bed. 

She ran into Draco on the way back to the Common Room—it seemed he’d had much the same idea.

“How’s it going for you?” He asked, stifling a yawn.

“I passed,” Hermione said. She shrugged. “I dunno by how much yet, but I’m not worried, at least.”

“Brilliant,” said Draco. “I think I did well enough on most of them. At the very least, I’m sure I didn’t fail too horribly.”

“You didn’t fail any of them,” Hermione snapped. “None of my students fail.”

Draco grinned.

* * *

She woke up the next morning from a dreamless, medicated sleep with a half hour to spare for breakfast, which was exactly how she’d planned it. She wasn’t a believer in last-minute cramming, not since she’d noticed a nap was much more efficient at locking information into one’s head, so Hermione left all her books and materials behind and walked into her next set of exams.

She felt light somehow, extremely light; too light—she was halfway to her Defense Against the Dark Arts seat when she realized it was because she’d left her beaded bag, too.

Panic gripped her and her throat started constricting. She couldn’t take the test without it. What if the castle were attacked, and she and her friends had to run away again, except this time she wouldn’t have a tent or her cooking set or food or a portable shower––she turned on her heel and sprinted back out of the examination room, racing past the startled examiners.

She ran down the halls to the Eighth Year Common Room, the knowledge she was already late conspiring to make her blood throb through her veins like jelly. She burst into the room, and luckily the beaded bag was right where she’d left it. She grabbed it and felt the weight of a hundred heavy things once more. Her heart rate slowed at once and she hugged the bag. She was safe now; whatever happened, she would be okay…

She ran back to the Great Hall, but the Ministry officials had barred the doors and refused to let her in with the bag.

“But you can’t keep me out,” she said, hot tears materializing on her face. “I have to take this test, I have to, can’t you see—”

Luckily McGonagall walked down the hall just then and took in the situation with a single sweep of her eyes. “Let her in,” she ordered the Ministry officials. “That’s Hermione Granger. I’m sure she won’t open the bag.”

The officials acquiesced and Hermione was treated to two hours of complicated essay questions, her beaded bag tucked safely behind her ankle.

* * *

All at once it was the evening of the fifth day and she was standing next to Hannah in dress robes, waiting to board the boats for the Hogwarts graduation ceremony. She pinched herself, trying to make the moment longer with a bit of pain, trying to live it, notice it…but McGonagall was already done speaking and it was time to step into the boats.

She got in with Hannah, putting her foot down carefully. The boat was shaking, and she wound up crashing in all at once in an attempt to keep it from tipping over.

“You okay?” Hannah turned around from her position on the front bench and extended a hand to help her straighten up.

“Thanks,” said Hermione, taking it. She looked around at the underground watery tunnel. Torchlight flickered off the damp stone walls and the chattering of the graduated became an eerie echo when it bounced off the deep stones. “I can’t believe it’s over, can you?”

“No,” Hannah breathed, turning around to face frontwards. “It’ll never really be over, will it?”

The boat began to move, propelled from underneath by a spell from McGonagall’s wand. “I think it already is,” said Hermione softly.

The moonlight glinted off the water outside, which rippled and bubbled as the Merpeople popped their heads above water in a silent goodbye. The Giant Squid even raised a tentacle in farewell as they passed, eliciting a cheer from the Hufflepuff Seventh Years, who were closest.

Then the passage across the Lake was over, too, and Harry was helping her out of the boat into a crowd of waiting friends and family.

“Ron couldn’t make it,” he whispered as she clung to his arm to keep from tumbling into the black water. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she whispered.

The rest of the Weasleys were there—for Ginny, she was sure; but Mrs. Weasley kept insisting they were there for Hermione, too—and after all the hugs she was just standing there, alone, looking back across the water at the castle that wasn’t home anymore. The lights were going out in the windows one by one. The house elves must be already closing it up for the summer.

There was another person who didn’t seem to have any family of his own there. She spied Draco standing by himself a ways away, close to the dock, arms folded gently with people milling obliviously around him.

“Excuse me,” she whispered to George, who was in the middle of telling a joke to some of the Weasleys. She crossed over to where Draco stood and, instinctively, against her better judgement, wrapped him in a hug. “Congratulations,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he replied, stiff and startled.

She let go. “We did it,” she said, awkwardly.

Draco nodded and gave her the faintest little smile. “We sure did.”

She let out a breath and let her shoulders fall. “I wish my parents could be here.”

There was such intense sadness in his eyes it momentarily took her breath away. “I’m so sorry they aren’t,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” she said, momentarily at a loss. There was a prickling feeling in her eyes. “I wish…” she trailed off. She had been about to wish him the same, but there was a look in his eyes, almost a warning look. She looked down at her foot instead. “So I guess this is it, then.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“Thanks for everything,” he said. “Good luck. I’m sure you’re going to do amazingly out there.”

“You too,” she said.

He smiled like he didn’t quite believe it. “Goodbye, Granger.”

And then Draco melted away into the crowd and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Naturally, they’re going to meet up again [Glances meaningfully at the next set of chapters]


	19. There's No Such Thing as the Real World

The Weasleys threw her and Ginny an enormous graduation party. There were giant enchanted balloon animals that danced around the lawn, a levitating cake, and dozens of friends and acquaintances she hadn’t even met before. She rather suspected Mrs. Weasley was compensating for not getting to throw graduation parties for all of her own children; George was looking rather salty in the corner.

Mr. Weasley sidled up to her, sipping banana wine from a glass using an upside-down twisty straw. “This could be a good networking opportunity for you,” he said in a low voice, gesturing at the many strangers in shabby dress robes. “I invited all the people I work with. You might be able to make some good connections.”

Hermione looked around. It seemed like most people were from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, but she spotted Gordon Williamson in the corner. Her stomach did a little flop when she saw him and she looked back down at her drink. “Thank you,” she said to Mr. Weasley, smiling at him.

She struck up a conversation with one of the wizards, a man in faded navy-blue robes who turned out to be a Ministry auditor. He asked her what she planned on doing after Hogwarts and she told him about her plans to work over the summer in a law office and then part time during Magical Law School.

“They’re going to let you do that?” He looked at her askance. “But you haven’t taken the First Year law classes yet, have you?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve already sent in inquiry letters, though. I’m sure they’ll have something for me. It’s really the atmosphere of the office I’m after; I’ll be perfectly happy doing any job they’ve got.”

The man looked unconvinced. “But no First Year law transcript?” He shook his head. “They’re very selective.”

The back door flew open on the house just then with a bang and she looked over to see Ron had just darted out. His face broke into a huge grin when he saw her. “Hermione!” He ran over.

She excused herself from the conversation with the auditor and greeted Ron warmly, feeling nervous. “Ron! I’m so glad to see you’re okay!”

He was talking quickly. “I’m so sorry I missed your graduation. I was in St. Mungo’s with a broken ankle. We were ambushed in Germany and I broke my ankle and the Death Eaters had me knocked out for a week; apparently I almost starved to death.” He grabbed her face and pulled her in for a huge, passionate kiss.

Hermione’s eyes flew wide open in shock as he kissed her. Her stomach swooped and she froze in panic. It was also like the sun came out of the clouds and an imaginary orchestra of baby angels took up violins for Vivaldi’s _Gloria._ It wasn’t a _bad_ swooping.

He let her go and she tried to lean casually on the table, but her elbow slipped and she quite tumbled over, taking a glass down with her.

Ron laughed as he bent over to help her up. “Damn, I didn’t know I was _that_ good at kissing.”

Hermione looked past him to where Harry was standing by the bushes, open-mouthed with a glass of firewhisky in his hand. _Just go with it,_ he mouthed—desperately, she thought. From the other end of the garden Gordon Williamson’s eyes were suddenly fixed on her as well.

She froze, getting up stiffly, and brushed glass clippings from her dress, listening to the panicked poundings of her heart.

Were they suddenly not broken up? Had Ron… _forgotten?_ They’d been broken up for almost a month. He couldn’t possibly forget those feelings; forget the frustrations that had led to the breakup. And she—she couldn’t forget. Or could she?

Hermione looked at Ron. The sun was above him in the sky, giving his red hair a gold glint as the wind rustled it softly. She had missed him terribly. And now that Draco had taken his N.E.W.T.s, the same situation wasn’t likely to rise again, so there wouldn’t be anything standing between her and Ron…

She shook herself, trying to clear her mind. The thought felt selfish. Ron had _wanted_ to break up with her back when he’d had full control of his mind. She would have to come clean with him.

She opened her mouth, but Ron touched her shoulder. “I’ll get you another drink,” he said lightly, taking her glass from her.

She looked after him in panic, but here was Harry now, striding purposefully across the lawn. It looked like Williamson was edging closer as well.

“Hermione!” Harry put his arm around her when he reached her.

She shook her head nervously. “What’s going on? He just came over and kissed me; I hadn’t heard anything yet. I’d figured he was still mad at me—”

“The breakup must have gotten erased from his memory too,” said Harry in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. He glanced sideways across the garden at Ron. Ron waved happily back.

Hermione felt sick. “What am I supposed to do?”

Harry shook his head like he didn’t know. A shadow fell over them and she looked behind her to see Gordon Williamson had arrived, a champagne flute in his hand.

“Miss Granger,” he said politely, then addressed Harry. “What’s going on here?”

“Ron broke up with her before the…incident,” said Harry, sounding rushed. “But it seems like that got wiped from his memory. He thinks he’s still with her.”

Williamson’s eyes flashed sharply. “If you remind him of the breakup, it could trigger the other memories back.”

Hermione was having trouble thinking. The conversation seemed to be moving very fast, and her legs still felt like jelly after the taste of Ron’s lips. She risked a glance over to the drink table. He was almost done pouring; he’d be back in just moments—

Williamson was looking at her now. “You’ll have to play along,” he said. “We don’t want it coming back; it’ll just be worse if we have to mess with his mind again.”

Her voice sounded small in the bright sun. “Couldn’t we…if it did…he’d be okay, right? No one’s…angry at him?”

Williamson looked down at her in disgust. “You saw him, didn’t you? Memories of the Imperius curse—of hurting the ones you care about—they destroyed half the working population after the First Wizarding War. It’s traumatic. It eats away at you. It’s not something I’m going to let you force him to live with.”

Harry’s face was cloudy and dark, but he looked like he didn’t dare contradict his boss.

“But…” Hermione looked towards Ron again. She’d thought she would feel relieved when he took her back, relieved and accepted; but she didn’t feel accepted at all. She felt like she was tricking him.

“Have I made myself clear?” Williamson glared down at her, then he must have seen something in her eyes because suddenly his gaze softened to the point of tenderness and his voice became a gentle whisper. “I’m sorry. I know this must be very difficult for you. But you’ve got to understand. I…I was under the Imperius curse, I was forced to do things I wish I could forget. Take it from someone who knows—it would break him.”

Williamson stood aside to make room for Ron, who was grinning and holding fresh drinks. The sun glinted in his hair like a halo. It had grown longer and was swaying lazily in the breeze.

“Oy, met Williamson, have you?”

He handed her the drink and she sipped it at once, begging the burning liquid to round off the edges of her feelings, make her calmer.

Ron looked from her to Williamson and back. “Hey, you should get a job at the Auror office, too!” He said brightly. “You could sit by my desk. We could go on missions together.” He put his arm around her and looked up at Williamson. “Boss, this is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger. We saved the Wizarding World together, but the rest of her CV is really impressive too if you insist on seeing it.”

Hermione searched Ron’s eyes, but they were light and happy with not a trace of anything else—he must have really and truly forgotten.

Williamson’s lips stretched into a tight smile. “I look forward to speaking with you more,” he said, giving Hermione’s hand a firm shake. He stepped away, leaving Harry hovering awkwardly next to Hermione and Ron.

“Boy, I think you’ve got a great shot at the job!” said Ron in a low voice once he’d left. “You seem to have made a good impression on him!”

Hermione looked to Harry for help.

Harry shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “It’d be tough to do part-time,” he said. “And Williamson already knows about her Magical Law School plans, unfortunately. She’d barely even be done with training by the end of the summer.”

Ron’s face fell, but Hermione gave Harry a grateful little smile. She couldn’t bear the thought of working in the Auror office, not now that she knew what they put people through.


	20. N.E.W.T.s and New Beginnings

Hermione woke up the next morning in Regulus Black’s old bedroom at Grimmauld place and stayed there a while, watching the morning light push through the heavy green curtains and spread across the ceiling. She had graduated. She was off on her own now. She only needed her N.E.W.T. results and she’d be ready to go. It was a strange feeling.

She got dressed in her best Muggle clothes and, after a lonely breakfast (Harry had already left for work), spent the day closing a deal on an apartment in Surrey Quays near the water. It was a tiny studio in a second-story walkup, and at first glance it was intimidatingly bare. But she could brighten it with books and perhaps put temporary magical paint on the walls. She managed to sign the lease without quite resorting to a _Confundus_ charm and proudly received the keys.

She sat for a moment on the bare floor, looking out the single window. Her heart was racing and she felt a little terrified. She was really doing this––really grown up now; really about to live on her own and work for a living. It was both thrilling and alarming.

There was a tapping at the window and she opened it to let in a medium-sized snowy owl she hadn’t seen before. Its feathers were downy white, but it held itself in an aristocratic, almost disdainful way. She thought by the timing and the envelope that it might be a Ministry owl, but it wasn’t the usual size or breed. 

She took the envelope––it was blank, which was unusual, but inside was a folded-up N.E.W.T. transcript. She opened it, heart racing, but it was a copy and it wasn’t her grades––it was a series of A’s and E’s with the name Draco L. Malfoy written across the top. At the bottom, a neat, spidery hand had written two simple words: _Thank you._

Hermione found herself smiling, looking at it. She’d helped him. He’d done it. He’d passed. The door was open for him now to try for whatever job he dared to seek. 

Hermione spent the rest of the day walking about her new neighborhood, checking in with the shops. It had been over a year since she’d properly been in a Muggle area, and she was finding it oddly nostalgic. She wondered briefly if she might make some Muggle friends, and it occurred to her that she had none––she’d lost contact ages ago with the few girls who had been kind to her in primary school, and now that her parents were gone all their friends were as inaccessible as they were.

Surrey Quays was not far from Canary Wharf, which was where she hoped to work. One of the law firms she had applied to had offices in a disguised Muggle building there, and she decided to go in person as soon as she’d received her own N.E.W.T. results and follow up on her letters of inquiry.

The last thing she did that day was purchase a brand-new bed at a Muggle shop. It was small, a twin, and the cheapest model they had; but it would go well in the apartment and once she had it assembled the room started to look significantly more like a place of living. Around sundown she headed back to Grimmauld Place to meet up with Harry and collect her things.

Harry was thrilled to hear about it, as was Ginny, who was back from practice with the Holyhead Harpies.

“I demand a visit,” said Ginny, chowing down on a sandwich. “I’ve never been to a Muggle apartment before.”

“It’ll only be Muggle on the outside,” said Hermione, grinning. “I plan to deck it out quite nicely on the inside. I’ve already bought a book on household magic and I can’t wait to try it out.”

“Any news on the job front?” Harry asked.

“Yes!” said Hermione. “Well, not exactly. No one’s answered my letters of inquiry, but they must just be busy. I’m going to head over and try to meet in person once I’ve got my results.”

“Fantastic!” Said Ginny, her mouth full. She swallowed. “Where’s the job?”

“Fodgson, Midgeworth and Lee,” said Hermione primly. “They specialize in export-import and shipping law. It’s terribly fancy.” She flounced over to where Harry was sitting. “They actually have offices in Canary Wharf, in a Muggle area. You know the really tall skyscraper with the pyramid on top? They’re _in_ the pyramid.”

“Are they?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “That’s brilliant.”

“It is!” She clasped her hands, giddy. “It’s glass from the inside, so you have a perfect view of all of London, but it’s hidden on the outside. And there’s a magical doorway in the Ministry that you can use to quickly get from there to the office building or back for meetings.”

“Great!” Said Harry. “We could meet at the Ministry cafeteria for lunch.”

“Or at my office!” said Hermione. “I bet they have tables by the windows, or maybe some sort of balcony...you could meet me there, you know. Did you know they let people _fly_ in to work, so long as they’ve cast a Disillusionment charm?”

“Do they?” Harry looked up, grinning. “D’you reckon they’d let me fly in there and use the door to the Ministry to get to work?”

“I dunno,” said Hermione. “But I’ll sneak you in.”

Harry and Ginny helped her gather her trunks and arrange for a portkey to take them all directly into her new apartment.

Harry oohed and aahed appropriately, but Ginny wrinkled her nose.

“It’s very nice,” she said politely. “But in a sort of...closet-ish way. D’you mind if I cast an extension charm?”

Hermione didn’t mind a bit, of course, so Ginny pulled the curtains and got to work. When she was done she’d carved out a niche by the window and enlarged the room enough that the kitchenette began to seem like its own room.

“Now let’s get you some walls,” said Ginny happily. She transfigured a couple of boxes into large mounds of drywall and stuck them so that when she was finished they were encased by the front door in a sitting room. To their right a wall hid the kitchenette, and to their left a second wall hid the bedroom. “There you go,” said Ginny, satisfied. “I’m not very good at _doors,_ I’m afraid…” But she gave it a shot anyway, using her wand to carve jagged entrances in each of the walls.

“It’s perfect!” Said Hermione, clasping her hands together in delight. “Thank you so much. I’ll just put curtains up, or maybe I can find a castoff doorframe in a dumpster and repair it.” She threw her arms around Ginny and hugged her. “Thank you.”

Ginny shrugged proudly. “It’s no trouble. That’s how we built the Burrow. It’s strong and it’ll hold, but it might... _lean.”_

Sure enough, the walls were already looking a bit saggy, but Hermione didn’t mind. “It’s a proper home now,” she said. “I’ll just need to pick up some furniture once I’ve got money from my new job.”

“Take a bookshelf from Grimmauld Place,” Harry cut in. “One of the ones from the bedrooms. I’ve got loads, and it can’t be Hermione’s home if you haven’t got a place to store your books.”

Hermione wasn’t about to say no to that, so a few forms and another Portkey later they were back with two squat brown shelves and a dusty chaise lounge Harry insisted she take.

“I think it might be cursed,” he said, helping her push it into position as a sort of couch in the front room. “It belonged to Walburga Black. I don’t want it back; when you’re through with it you ought to just throw it away. But it can be your temporary couch.”

Hermione used a revealing spell just in case, and sure enough the chaise was loaded with Muggle-repelling spells, children-repelling spells, and man-summoning spells. She pulled out her favorite counter-spell book and happily set to work.

By the time she had un-cursed the chaise lounge, Harry and Ginny had all her books unpacked and arranged in the living room. Ginny had even enlarged her closet so it was a walk-in and transfigured one wall of it into a full-length mirror.

A sharp tapping noise distracted them, and they turned to see a Ministry owl tapping at the bedroom window.

“It must be my results!” Hermione raced to let it in.

Sure enough, the owl had two envelopes fastened to its leg. She summoned an owl treat from her writing set and took the envelopes.

The owl hooted in a happy, upper-class sort of way and took off back out the window.

“Let’s see!” Ginny crowded in on her, joined by Harry, as she sat down on the twin bed to open the first envelope. Hermione realized she was shaking.

She pulled out a letter and unfolded it—it listed out her N.E.W.T. results in careful, neat handwriting.

“All O’s!” Ginny leapt up, ecstatic. “I _knew_ you could do it! That was a tough year, but you didn’t let it hold you back!” She smacked her hand in an exuberant high five.

“Congratulations,” said Harry, hugging her. “Let’s see what’s in the other one.”

Hermione opened it and grinned so big she felt like her smile might extend off the edges of her face.

 _“Dear Miss Granger,”_ the letter read, _“Upon receipt of your N.E.W.T. scores, the Magical Law School of Great Britain is proud to offer you a place in our First Year Class, beginning the first of September.”_

It went on to list details and tuition, but Hermione barely paid any more attention, jumping off her bed and punching the air in victory.

 _“I did it!”_ She felt like she could weep. Here it was—clutched in her hand. Her ticket into Wizarding society, forever.


	21. True Colours

Hermione stepped through the enchanted door into the pristine law offices of Fodgson, Midgeworth & Lee the next morning and let out a little gasp.

The walls were made of glass, and she could see the Thames wending its way all the way out of London. The other skyscrapers looked like small building blocks. Now this was an office she would be able to breathe in.

One panel of the wall was open to the sky with a sort of plank leading in, and every few minutes a witch or wizard would materialize on the plank, clutching a broomstick and removing their disillusionment charm.

Private offices clustered all around the edge of the floor, all cased in glass walls, and inside she could see law files and books magically flying about and re-shelving themselves. Towards her, a small flight of stairs led to a seating area with high-end couches and glass tables, ringed with a low wooden wall.

And directly in front of her, her full attention bent to the piece of paper in front of her, was the receptionist, clothed in brilliant pink dress robes and seated beneath a large wooden show wall emblazoned with the letters of the firm.

Hermione stepped eagerly forward, but the receptionist did not look up.

She stood there awkwardly for a moment. In the silence she could hear voices in the distance; a loud shout and a slamming of a glass door; then it was back to the quiet sounds of shuffling paper.

“Excuse me,” she said timidly. “I’m just here to follow up on an inquiry letter I sent a couple of months ago about open positions.”

The receptionist looked up at her, a bored expression on her face. “You a law student?”

“I’m going to be,” said Hermione brightly. “I’m starting in September, and I’m very excited—”

“Come back when you’ve finished your first year,” said the receptionist, going back to her letter answering. “We don’t hire people straight out of Hogwarts.”

“But surely you can make an exception?” Said Hermione, flustered. “I got Outstandings on all my N.E.W.T.s, and I’ve read loads of law books—”

“That’s great,” said the receptionist in a flat voice, not even lifting her gaze from the letter she was scrawling. “We don’t take anyone who hasn’t got at least an Acceptable on their First Year law exams.”

Hermione stood there a moment, tongue drying rapidly in her mouth, unsure what to say.

The receptionist paused her scribbling and lifted her eyes to look up at Hermione. “You’re still here?”

“Er, no, I’m just going,” said Hermione, fidgeting with her beaded bag.

The receptionist stared her down as she walked back to the enchanted door. 

Hermione spared one last, longing glance at the beautiful, calm office, then stepped back through the door to the dark, dated interior of the Ministry.

It was okay, she told herself as she walked quickly along the atrium to the exit, her heels clicking on the black marble floor. That firm was one of the wealthiest private law firms in the Wizarding World. It was a long shot, and she still had several more places on her list.

Next up was Solomon, Badgin & Calderon’s, a cauldron-damages firm located in one of the cleaner, more upright buildings in Diagon Alley. Unfortunately, that was much the same story.

She did manage to talk past the issue of not yet being a first year law student and get an interview with Calderon’s assistant, but then he started grilling her on cauldron policy and she didn’t have the answers.

“I’m quite familiar with the case law,” she said quickly. “I know all about in 1886, how Primrose Berthington…” She trailed off into the story of the witch who won a landed manor in a lawsuit over an exploding cauldron.

Calderon’s assistant was shaking his head at her, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he said when he was finished. “Only the senior partners represent our clients in court. When it comes to junior staff we really need people who know the ins and outs of the cauldron building laws—inches, depths, approved metals. Come back next year and maybe then we can talk.”

Hermione left the law office feeling quite demoralized. Maybe the man who worked with Arthur at the party was right and she just wasn’t qualified to work in a law firm yet, never mind that she’d saved the Wizarding World and read an entire library section on law practice.

It was sunny outside, and warmer. She was walking down the Alley when a large barn owl approached her.

“Shoo,” she said, waving it away.

It kept hovering insistently, sticking its leg out. She looked down and saw an envelope with her name scrawled on it.

“Thank you,” she said, unfastening the envelope. The owl hooted at her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any owl treats on me.”

The owl lifted its broad wings and swooped away in disdain. Hermione paused in her tracks on the cobblestones and slit open the letter with her finger.

Pristine office stationery greeted her, and her heart started beating faster. She unrolled it and saw the logo of Waldridge & Associates—a major tax law firm—and could barely hold back a grin. Then she read the letter.

_“Dear Miss Granger,_

_Thank you for your interest in Waldridge & Associates. Unfortunately, we do not hire students until they have completed the first two seminars of a tax law course at an accredited Magical institution. Unless you are able to produce a transcript to that effect, we regret that we cannot consider you for a position at this time._

_Thank you for your service to the Wizarding World and we hope you will consider Waldridge & Associates in the future.”_

“Not a chance,” whispered Hermione, her eyes stinging. She crumpled the letter and shoved it into the depths of her beaded bag and took off walking.

So that was how this worked. That was why she hadn’t heard back sooner. She’d done all this work and now she wasn’t even qualified. She had just enough Wizarding gold left for one year of Magical Law School tuition; but how was she going to afford robes, or food, or––

There was a group of black-robed Aurors walking down the middle of the street ahead of her, walking confidently like they owned the place, pedestrians scattering around them with awed faces. She glared at them, annoyed because they were walking slowly and blocking her path, but then she thought she recognized one ginger head.

“Ron!”

The Auror turned, and sure enough it was Ron. He looked surprised to see her. “Hermione!”

The rest of the group stopped and turned with him. Ron was the youngest of the lot, but that wasn’t to say anyone was old. There were two wizards who walked and stood with an easy swagger, their twinkling eyes and five-o-clock shadow producing a sort of automatic swooping feeling in her stomach. The three witches who were with them were beautiful and fierce-looking. Two were almost as tall as Ron.

“Er, hi,” said Hermione, feeling quite short and suddenly shabby even though she was in heels and her best dress robes.

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked.

“Interviews,” she said. Thankfully the prickling feeling had mostly gone from her eyes now.

“Ah,” said Ron. “Hermione just graduated Hogwarts,” he announced, addressing the group. They all nodded and murmured their understanding.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione repeated back at him. It was not quite noon on a Wednesday, and they were in full work regalia on a high street.

“We’re about to get lunch,” Ron answered. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

He turned to go, but one of the tall witches frowned and laid a hand on his shoulder and asked him something.

Ron shook his head. “I’d invite her, but she hasn’t got clearance,” Hermione heard him say.

Hermione could feel the beginnings of a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Actually, I’ve got plans tonight,” she called out after him. They all turned again. Hermione shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” said Ron, his face inscrutable. “Well, okay. Nice running into you.”

He turned and he and his companions continued their jaunt, turning finally into a pub. She could hear people cheering for them inside as the door shut.

She stood, confused, for a moment. What was up with Ron? It was like he hadn’t wanted to be seen with her…

She shook her head and continued down the street. She had other things to worry about too right now. She needed a job, and fast, so she could pay for Magical Law School and get an amazing, impressive job so that no one could make her feel small or like she didn’t belong again.

Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor caught her eye. Perfect. They would definitely jump at the chance to hire her.

Florean Fortescue had perished during the war, but his daughter Florence ran the place now. Florence was a pretty middle-aged woman with frizzy, platinum blonde curls. She gave Hermione a smile and stepped to the side when she asked to speak with her.

“I’m, er, I’m looking for a job,” said Hermione.

Florence’s face fell.

“Do you need any help?” Hermione asked, gesturing to the ice cream trays. “I can scoop ice cream, or help with the register, or clean, or—”

“I’m sorry,” said Florence. She looked it. “We’d love to have you on board, Miss Granger. Your service to the Wizarding World is very much appreciated.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione, some of her confidence coming back. “That’s wonderful. So, can I—”

“I’m afraid not,” said Florence softly. “We’re a bit low on funds, and we really need someone who can commit to a full-time schedule for at least a year. I know you’ll be getting some other job soon, and you’re a very talented witch. You probably won’t work in the ice cream shop long.”

Hermione’s face grew red and she searched for something to say.

“I’m sorry, truly I am,” said Florence, and then she walked away, leaving Hermione standing there quite floored. She had wanted to get ice cream when she came in, as the day was growing rather hot, but now she trudged out empty handed.

It was the same story at Flourish & Blotts, except Flourish added that she would distract the customers with her fame.

“They’d all be wanting your autograph,” he said. He was a little man with shifty eyes. “And we can’t have that. The crowds would deter all the real customers. No, no.”

So Hermione apparated back to the park to her new flat and changed. There was one thing left to try.

She put on her best Muggle clothes and walked to a Muggle coffee shop with a Help Wanted sign. She pushed open the door, which jangled shut behind her.

After a day in the Wizarding working world, the shop seemed very quiet. A couple of businesspeople in suits were chatting in low voices, and someone was scrawling with a mechanical pen on lined paper.

Hermione went to the front and asked to speak to the manager. A friendly-looking younger woman came out, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Excuse me, I noticed your sign,” said Hermione.

“Oh, the sign!” The woman smiled warmly. “Are you interested in a position?”

Hermione said she was.

“That’s wonderful. Here, I’ll fetch you an application.”

Hermione waited, looking around. The shop was quiet and pleasant. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to work in the Muggle world. She was familiar enough with it to act the part, and it would pay for her food until she was able to get a year’s law courses under her belt and get a proper Wizarding job.

The woman came back with a form.

“Here,” she said. “Just bring this back, okay?” She smiled again.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, feeling a burst of warmth towards her. She took the form and stepped out of the shop. The air felt calmer outside, and the scent of blossoms wafted toward her.

She went home to the flat and pulled out a writing set and sat on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, ready to get to work.

She filled in her name, her address, her eligibility. Then she stopped. The form wanted to know where she’d gone to school.

Hermione froze. She couldn’t put down Hogwarts…could she put down the secondary school her parents had wanted her to attend? But then, they’d check, and she’d have to go over and use the _Confundus_ charm on the right people, perhaps falsify some records. But it could be done.

She scanned further down the form and stopped again. It asked for a National Insurance Number. She wasn’t entirely sure what that was.

She flipped to the back, where some boilerplate informed her she needed a NIN to work. She could start work without it, but then she’d need to apply to get one; it was supposed to come when she was sixteen, but if it hadn’t she could arrange an interview with some Muggle department and be sure to bring the following forms of identification…

Hermione sat back on her heels to try and clear her head. She opened the beaded bag, which was next to her as always, and tried to summon out her birth certificate. Nothing came.

She panicked, and summoned out all of her paperwork, until the whole empty kitchen was filled with a mountain of old forms and loose notes and crumpled essays. She dove into it, checking, searching through it. She could have _sworn_ she’d taken her birth certificate with her when she’d last left her parents’. It was the sort of thing she’d have done, just in case; she wouldn’t have overlooked it, surely. All they’d have had to do was see her name on it and their memories might have come back; she wouldn’t have taken that chance. She would have erased it or taken it, and she didn’t think she’d erased it, so where on earth had she put it?

An hour and a half later conclusively proved that she hadn’t put it in the beaded bag. Hermione shoved all her things back in and made herself a cup of tea using her camping cooking set (she’d known it would come in handy) and tried to calm herself.

It was going to be fine. She’d surely find the birth certificate _somewhere._ She’d probably stuck it in one of the bedrooms at Grimmauld Place, or in one of her books, and if she hadn’t there was a chance her parents had taken it in a lockbox without looking in it, and she could just go to Australia and take it from them.

That didn’t seem like the best option. It would be better to act like she’d erased it—she might have—and forge a new one. But that wasn’t something she had to do tonight.

* * *

Ginny and Harry came by after work with several large Muggle shopping bags.

“How did the job search go?” Ginny asked, setting down a bag of takeout on Hermione’s counter.

“Not great,” said Hermione. “Fodgson, Midgeworth & Lee’s didn’t want me. Neither did Solomon, Badgin & Calderon’s––that’s the damages firm that focuses on Potions accidents. And I got a letter back from Waldridge and Associates saying they also won’t even interview me until I’ve finished my first year at law school.” She sank bleakly onto her chaise lounge.

“Well, you’ve still got the inheritance law place, right?” said Harry hopefully. “And the family law firm? Maybe one of those will have a place for you.”

“I hope so,” said Hermione, trying to put some optimism in her tone and failing. “I mean, worst comes to worst I’ll just get a job at a Muggle shop. I just need money; I can’t be too picky about it being in my field. I’ve got to get some furniture for this place.” She gestured around the apartment, which was still a sterile white and completely bare save for the chaise lounge and the bookshelf.

“Actually, Harry and I had a brilliant idea for how to solve that,” said Ginny, coming out of the kitchen with the paper bag. She sat down on the floor and opened it and began to pull out doll furniture, arranging it on the floor. There was a tiny kitchen table no bigger than Ginny’s hand, little chairs she set around it, a miniature china cabinet with fingernail-sized dishes, a bright pink couch, an armchair, a dresser, and a coffee table. They were all crafted of thin, delicate wood. There was also a little painting and a grandfather clock.

“Dollhouse furniture?” Hermione wasn’t impressed. “Thanks, Ginny, but I haven’t got one of––”

“Stand back,” Ginny ordered, getting up and setting the miniature couch by the wall. She pointed her wand at it. _“Engorgio.”_

The couch began to grow, rising into a new shape. Ginny masterfully brought it up until it was the size of a normal couch.

Hermione found herself on her feet in shock. “That’s...that’s…”

Ginny winked at her and grinned.

“Why didn’t _I_ think of that?” Hermione went over to the couch and took a seat. It was much cushier than your average couch, being presumably layered with a single piece of foam that must now be about a foot thick, and she sank deeply into it.

“If you step away I’ll change the color,” said Ginny. Hermione got off, and Ginny transformed it from the glaring pink into a more relaxing mint green.

“Can we do the other furniture?” Hermione asked, her anxieties about job hunting temporarily forgotten.

“Of course.”

They spread out across the apartment, each taking a different room. Hermione filled the kitchen with table, chairs, and a china cabinet. She was delighted to find that the toy dishes and silverware grew with the cabinet, gifting her with a set of plates. The silverware was a bit odd when it grew, being thicker than your average silverware and also plastic, but she was thrilled to have it nevertheless.

When she came out to the living room, Ginny had enlarged the coffee table and put the painting on one wall and the clock in a corner.

“The clock doesn’t work, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically.

“That’s quite all right,” said Hermione, marveling at the enormous grandfather clock that now towered over her head. “It really fills the room up, doesn’t it?”

In the bedroom, Harry had put her dresser along one wall and was now pulling square fabric swatches out of a plastic bag.

“For the walls,” he answered Hermione. “We picked some patterns we thought you might like.”

Hermione was glad he’d left the choice to her, because among the solid color fabrics and the nice gold fleur-de-lis they had also bought a very childish print of cartoon airplanes and a plaid pattern that definitely didn’t belong on a wall. She chose the gold fleur-de-lis for the living room, a relaxing pale lilac for the bedroom, and a soft green for the kitchen. Ginny showed them both how to enlarge the fabric and plaster it to the wall, and after about an hour of trimming and sizing all of her rooms were covered in lovely fabric wallpaper.

They kicked back at the doll table to admire their work and ladled out Chinese takeout on the plastic plates.

“It’s brilliant,” said Hermione, feeling warm inside. She grinned at her friends. “It’s so nice now. It really feels like a place where I can live.”

“All Harry’s idea,” said Ginny happily. “Except for the walls and the colors and the actual furniture. But he came up with the concept.”

“Thank you both,” said Hermione happily.

Harry and Ginny glanced at each other awkwardly.

“So, er…” Ginny spoke first. “We heard you blew off Ron today.”

Hermione blinked in surprise. “Is that what Ron told you?” 

She took their silence as a yes. 

“I’d say he blew _me_ off,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “I ran into him in Diagon Alley and he didn’t want me to come to lunch with them. Which, it’s fine if I don’t go! It’s just, he didn’t _want_ me to…” She trailed off. 

Ginny frowned, confused. “How do you mean?” 

Hermione looked down into her drink. “I just…it feels dishonest, you know? Kissing him, being happy; pretending like nothing happened. It would be one thing if he seemed to want me back, but I have no idea how much he remembers or how he’s feeling about me.”

“He would’ve gotten back with you.” Ginny accidentally scraped her plate across the table with her elbow as she leaned forward, a trace of frustration in her voice. “He doesn’t remember— _at all._ He doesn’t remember being angry with you. That means it was just a momentary flash of anger when he broke up. It’s not like it was _planned_ or anything.”

Hermione started to crumple the paper napkin between her fingertips. “But it happened,” she said. “It happened for almost a month.”

“I’m sure he regretted it immediately,” said Ginny. There was an edge to her tone now.

“Yeah,” Harry cut in. “Hermione, he got sent out on mission that night or that morning. He wasn’t at his desk when I came in. And they can’t talk to people while they’re on mission; they can’t leave or say no or write. They’ve been coating them in owl-repellent potion, too, ever since Flemings got tracked down by Death Eaters who followed his owl and tortured him.”

“Did you erase his memory, too?” Hermione shot, before she could think about it. “Is he back on the force?”

Harry seemed stung. He looked down at the table.

Ginny laid a gentle hand on Harry’s elbow and looked at Hermione. “He would’ve tried to get back with you,” she said. “I swear it would’ve all been different if it weren’t for that stupid mission. If the other Aurors were still alive, I bet you could ask them and they’d say he spent the whole time talking about you—”

Hermione slammed her fists down on the table, setting the plastic plates rattling. “Great! He talked to all his dead friends about me before he got brutally taken advantage of! That just makes everything better. I can _totally_ forget all that happened now and we’ll just go on ice cream dates and talk about how much we love each other.”

Her friends seemed stunned into silence.

“Don’t you see?” The room seemed to be growing smaller, dimmer. Harry’s eyes were bright. “I know what you do to them, now. And I know you won’t make the mistake of showing me, again. How can I trust him when he comes home to me? Every time I see him, I’m going to be wondering, is he a little fuzzy because he’s just tired like a normal person? Or is it because you lot have put him through something horrible again and he just can’t remember it? What if the spell goes wrong? What if he forgets me _completely?”_

She realized she was standing.

Harry cleared his throat. His eyes were wide and sad and she thought he looked ten years older.

“What if I tell you?” He offered quietly.

“What?” She sat down.

He glanced sideways at Ginny, then looked back at her. “I can promise to tell you, if they do something like that to him again.”

Ginny leaned on the table. “Is that something you can do?”

Harry stared down at the table, then his eyes went to each of them in turn. “Look, I’m not really on board with this either. There’s a lot going on every day, and I can’t even share it with Ron, but what I really can’t do is face it alone. So I can promise to tell you, and you can trust that I’ll keep that promise.”

“Tell us,” whispered Ginny. She looked to Hermione.

Hermione nodded. “I want to know.”

“Can you be with Ron, now?” Ginny whispered, her eyes shy and hopeful.

Hermione looked down at the table. It was wooden, but the scratches in it were proportionally larger than normal; more like deep gashes. Staring at it was like taking a magnifying glass to a bit of wood. “I’ll have to see,” she said. “I’ll have to find out if he still really wants to be with me.”

* * *

“I thought you had plans tonight,” Ron said an hour later as he let her in the door of his new apartment.

“I didn’t,” said Hermione, deciding that what this relationship needed was a good deal more honesty. Wasn’t that what had killed it last time? “I was just upset with you because I felt like you were blowing me off at lunch.”

“Oh, that,” said Ron, looking pained.

She caught up to him then and got on her tiptoes to give him a kiss, which he didn’t really return.

“You understand though, right?” He said, giving her just a peck on the lips. “I mean, it’d be different if you were an Auror, too. But we wouldn’t have been able to talk shop over lunch if you’d joined.”

“Of course,” said Hermione, but she felt a glower returning to her face. She wanted to have a nice evening with her boyfriend, though, so she let it go and turned. “So this is your new apartment!”

“Yeah,” said Ron proudly. “I got it real cheap. I found it during a murder investigation, and no one else wanted it.”

Hermione looked at the crusty brown stains spotting the length of the carpet. “I can see that.”

Ron followed her gaze. “Yeah, we’re still working on getting up the bloodstains. There’s a bit of a mold problem, too. And cockroaches. Plus a really angry ghoul who lives in the shower and tries to strangle anyone who goes in there. We think he’s the spirit of the last inhabitant.”

“Lovely,” said Hermione, trying to keep a straight face. She pulled out a bottle of wine from her purse. “I got you a housewarming present.”

Ron thanked her and peered at the label.

“It’s Muggle,” said Hermione in answer to the confused expression on his face. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit short on Wizarding cash at the moment.”

“Cool,” said Ron, his expression unreadable. He set the bottle aside on the dingy kitchenette counter without opening it.

“D’you want to have some?” Hermione offered. “I’d brought it for…well, it’s a date night, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” said Ron. He picked up the bottle and used an uncorking spell to open it, then poured it into two mismatched beer glasses that comprised the entirety of his drinkware.

Hermione cast a quick cleaning spell on hers when he wasn’t looking, then let him pour the wine in.

 _Chudley Cannons ’98,_ read the grimy yellow logo on the side.

“Been going to a lot of Quidditch?” She asked, taking a sip of the wine. It was cheap, but it was smooth and fruity.

“Yeah, almost every weekend actually,” said Ron, taking a sip of the wine. His face contorted in an ugly expression. “The hell is this?”

“Wine,” said Hermione, feeling a bit offended. “You’ve had wine before?”

“Yeah, banana wine,” said Ron. “I’m sorry, Hermione, this was really nice of you but this is disgusting. I’ve got some firewhisky somewhere—” and he poured the glass of wine down the sink as she watched before rifling through the cabinets for a bottle.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione, feeling like she was shrinking. “So…Quidditch. How come I never got an invite?”

Ron shrugged and filled his glass with firewhisky—too much firewhisky, she thought. “You were busy.”

“Right.” Hermione looked down at her shoes. She was afraid to take them off, now that Ron had clarified that the stains all over the floor were in fact dried blood. “Could I come with you sometime now, though?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, sounding unconvinced. He waved her toward the couch, which was a brown, lumpy, shapeless piece that looked like it had been rescued from the dumpster on several previous occasions. “It won’t really work if you’re short on gold, though. They’ve been giving the Auror Department box seats, but nobody’s really brought a guest before. I dunno if it’s allowed.”

Ron plunged into the sofa, sending the liquid in his glass swooshing around. Hermione gingerly took a seat next to him.

Ron took a swig. “How’s the job search going?”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s going.” She was tempted not to elaborate, but then remembered she was trying to save her relationship—really give it a chance this time. “Apparently I’m not qualified for even an entry level position at a law office. They keep saying they want people with at least a year of experience.”

Ron looked at her searchingly. “Why are you doing law? Why won’t you join the Auror Department?” His tone of voice sounded like this was a question he’d been bursting to ask her for a long time. “It’d be so cool to have you there. They’d hire you right away, I’m sure of it.”

Hermione looked at the rim of her glass, taking her time in responding. “It’s too much,” she said finally. “It’s too like the war. I don’t feel up to fighting anybody anymore.”

Ron leaned back, putting his arm behind his head. “That’s rubbish,” he said scornfully. “You’re so good at it. You’ve got a duty to help us finish what we started.”

“I am helping,” said Hermione, her color rising. “We restored peace. We gave ourselves a future again. I’m building that future.”

Ron looked away from her. “I can’t believe you.” There was an undercurrent of something—fury?—to his voice. “There are still Death Eaters loose, and you’re not doing everything in your power to take them off the streets?”

Hermione bit her tongue, looking at him. He didn’t know what ‘everything in your power’ meant, she reminded herself. He didn’t know how wrong things had gone for him.

“Let’s not talk about this right now,” she said softly. She touched her hand to his arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

She set her drink down on the floor—Ron didn’t have a coffee table—and moved closer to him.

She looked into his eyes, and there was a confusing mess of emotions there. She frowned, fearful, something clenching at her stomach.

“Ron…”

“Yes?”

“Do you…want to break up?”

She had to know; had to know if she was tricking him. Were the emotions still there, just right under the surface? Or had he really forgotten, and, by extension, forgiven her?

Ron’s jaw dropped in shock and fear flicked across his eyes. “No––god, of course not—” He set his drink on the floor and shoved himself up into a better seating position. “Of course I don’t want to break up with you. Do you…want to break up with me?”

“No!” She said quickly, shaking her head. “No, not at all.”

Ron looked at her, aghast. “Then why would you bring it up?!”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said quickly, stroking the side of his face. “I just wanted to know, was all. Nevermind.”

“What’s going on?” Ron seemed upset.

“Nevermind; just kiss me…”

It seemed to be pretty easy to make Ron forget things.


	22. Beg, Borrow, Or Steal

Hermione woke up in Grimmauld Place again, because her new place wasn’t yet connected to the Floo and she still needed to figure out the most inconspicuous location for apparating back there, but her relief at mending things with Ron quickly turned to stress about her career. She trudged downstairs in pajamas, her hair a messy cloud, and started foraging through the cabinets, looking for the cereal.

“Good morning,” said Harry, looking up from his _Daily Prophet._ “How was Ron’s?”

Hermione yanked the box of cereal out of the cabinet and slammed the door shut. “How can I pay to go to law school when everyone wants me to have gone to law school before they’ll pay me?”

Harry put down his paper. “What?”

She sniffed angrily, pouring the cereal into a bowl. “I mean, I can always confund the Muggles, I guess. Bluff my way into a job at the coffee shop. Live like a real Muggleborn and read my law books in my Muggle flat while I eat my Muggle food praying that one day I’ll get to _really_ be part of the Magical world.”

A vision of her failing her Magical Law exams and being shut out of the Magical World for years and years while Ron and his new friends snickered at her passed before her vision. She sat down on the bench and put her head in her hands and quite suddenly burst into tears. Harry looked at her in shock.

“Er…” he seemed to have short circuited.

She scrubbed the tears out of her eyes and took a giant sniff. “Why can’t I do it, Harry? I helped save the Wizarding World. I’ve spent every...every _minute_ of free time poring through Magical Law codes. They’re all going to be falling over themselves for me in a year when I’ve got O’s in all my exams. So why can’t anyone find a place for me now? How are they all full up?”

Harry blinked at her. The dust rag was dangling from his clenched hand.

She made a disgusted noise and turned away. “They won’t even let me scoop ice cream. Fortescue’s daughter said I’ll just quit when school’s over.”

“Er, Hermione…” Harry sat down, folding the dust rag over his knee.

“What?” She realized she was glowering. He looked a little intimidated. “What is it?” She asked again, more softly.

“You can’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

“Of course not,” she said, annoyed that he would even mention it. “Who am I going to tell, Ron?”

“Ron knows.” Harry looked down at the floor and took a deep breath before he met her gaze again. “We’ve got some more intel and we’re planning loads more Death Eater raids. Ron’s mission was just the start. They’ll all have the right to a trial. There’s about to be a huge backlog of Death Eater cases.”

Hermione summoned the bottle of milk from the fridge and poured it into her cereal. “Are you saying perhaps I could get a job on one of those?”

Harry nodded. “Some sort of paralegal position. Sorting through evidence; Auror reports; old financial records. You’re familiar with Magical Criminal Law, right?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve read about every book on the subject, but no one seems to care since I haven’t got a stupid parchment from my first year exams to prove it.” She jerked her head up suddenly, struck with an idea. “Wait—term isn’t over.”

Harry frowned. “I thought it was, though? You graduated last week—”

She shook her head. “Magical Law School. It goes a little longer. Harry, I’ve still got a week.”

“What for?”

“To take the exams!” She quite leapt out of her chair and began to pace, electrified. “I’ll ask them, beg them, bribe them—whatever—to let me sit the First Year exam for Criminal Law. Then, I can argue I’m even more qualified than everyone else, since I taught myself!”

Harry sat up straighter. Things seemed to be clicking in his mind. “I can get you in touch with some of the lawyers,” he said. “I know Bartimeus Bartleby, sort of. He requests evidence from my office a lot, and some days it’s my turn to explain it to him.”

Hermione cast her hands out. “Perfect!”

“There is...one thing,” said Harry, looking down at his hands. “That you should know. Most of the jobs are going to be on the defense cases. Representing the Death Eaters.” 

Hermione’s hands fell to her sides at once and she imagined she could feel the scar on her wrist prickling. “What?” 

Harry was fidgeting with his shirt tail, speaking fast and not looking at her. “Everyone wants to prosecute them. Everyone. But I think it’s actually a real problem. You should see my files; people are so angry, there’s loads of stuff being done wrong. People overlooking evidence, framing people they don’t like; there’s one set of Death Eaters that got sentenced to life in Azkaban last month and I swear I think they might have actually been _Muggles._ Everyone’s just angry and hurt and seeing what they want, and it’s like the last Wizarding War, it’s like what happened to Sirius, they’re not getting real trials…” 

Hermione sat down slowly. 

Harry looked up at her. “It’s not...nobody wants to take up their cases. And I’m not saying most people are innocent. I’m saying _some_ of them are, and honestly the Auror Department has way too much faith in the Dementor’s Kiss. They’re paranoid there could be a third Wizarding War some day, and they keep arguing that the Kiss is the only way to make sure Death Eaters don’t reoffend. But they’re not...we’re not sure they’re all _really_ Death Eaters.” 

“And nobody should get the Kiss, anyway,” Hermione breathed. 

“Exactly,” said Harry. “I mean, remember Barty Crouch, Jr.? Remember what they were going to do to Sirius? I’m as pro-justice as anyone, I think all the Death Eaters should be behind bars, I think we have a duty to do everything we can to stamp out this ideology forever. But...it’s _bad,_ Hermione. We have to make sure the people who are being punished really are guilty.” 

“Right,” said Hermione. The room felt like it was slowing down. She glanced at her wrist, but the scar was barely visible in the dim light after what McGonagall had done to help her heal it. “And that is what lawyers do. It’s civilized; it’s getting as close as we can to the truth; it’s genuinely acting like people are innocent until proven guilty…” 

“That’s just it,” said Harry, a pleading look in his eyes. “Hermione, _please_ be open to working on Defense cases if you’re asked to. As good a man as the Minister is, we can’t...we just need to protect the justice system. It’s the only thing between us and tyranny.” 

* * *

After a whirlwind morning of inquiries, Hermione uncovered the name of the right person to talk to and showed up unannounced at his office. He was Kensington, the professor for the First Year Criminal Law class. She gave him her pitch.

He listened in silence, then rocked back in his chair, studying her, knitting his fingers together. “You won’t pass.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “You clearly haven’t met me yet.”

He leaned back, his eyes searching over her, sizing her up. “It’s got to stay fair to the other students.”

“Of course.” Hermione nodded. “I’ll retake the course next year and take the test again once I’ve officially studied the material. I just want to see what I can do.”

He pursed his lips, considering. “Are you going to pay for it?”

“Pay to take the test?” Hermione was caught off guard. She bit her lip. “Yeah, I’ll pay a fee.”

“Great.” He straightened up and started organizing his desk again. “It’ll be a thousand galleons.”

“A thousand galleons!” Her eyebrows practically shot off her face. “For one test? But that’s the price of a whole course!”

“Yes, it’s the exact price of a single course in first year Magical Criminal Law.”

“But I’ve missed all of it—I’m only asking to take the test!”

He bounced a ream of papers against the desk, shuffling them into position. “Well, you agreed to keep things fair between you and the other students.”

“But I’m not getting the same value as they are. They’ve gotten months of instruction and feedback, and all I’m asking is to take one exam with them. They paid for the whole class. Surely that deserves a discount.”

Kensington smirked. “Are they really paying for the whole class? Because according to you, none of it matters except the little piece of paper you get from taking the test at the end. Judging by the number of students who actually bother to show up for lectures each week, as far as I can tell they’re all just paying for the paper, too.”

“But-but that’s ridiculous!” She sputtered.

“Is it?” He yanked an essay towards him, then dipped a quill in ink in preparation to mark it up. “That piece of paper will cost you a thousand galleons. You can take it or leave it.”

Hermione gaped for a minute, torn. “But I’m a Muggleborn,” she tried finally, lamely. “I can’t afford to pay for law school and this too. Isn’t there something we can work out?”

“You’re a Muggleborn?” He looked up, smiling with a glint in his eye. “Well, isn’t that lovely. It’s still a thousand galleons.”

“But I can’t pay,” Hermione pressed. “I don’t have any Wizarding family who can help me out.”

He set his quill down and laced his fingers together on the desktop. “You’re really not going to be a very good lawyer, are you? How ever will you find the nerve to bill your clients?” He flicked the door open with his wand, signaling the meeting was over. “Find the money, Miss Granger. Or you won’t get your shot at that piece of paper.”

* * *

Hermione stamped back into Grimmauld Place, her face burning. She stormed into the kitchen, where Harry was going over some files he had brought home.

“I can’t do it. It’s not going to work.”

He looked up from his paperwork, alarmed. “Why not?”

She dropped her beaded bag, which landed on the floor with a loud clunk. She winced—she really needed to clean it out before some of the stuff started breaking. “They’re a bunch of snobby, elitists pricks. It’s all rigged. They won’t let me sit for the exam unless I pay tuition for the course for the _entire year.”_

“How much is it?” Harry asked, unfazed.

“A thousand galleons.” 

Harry nodded. “I’ll lend you the money.”

“No!”

Harry crossed his arms defensively. “And why not?”

“Harry, I can’t—I can’t do that.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes.

“It’s just a loan to get you a job,” Harry said evenly, in a voice so calm it was almost infuriating. “I know you’ll pay it all back. And I know you haven’t got enough in your vault to pay for two years’ tuition. It’s not a gift—it’s an investment.”

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t possibly take his money, but…

“Take it,” said Harry firmly. He set down his paperwork. “C’mon. We’re going to Gringotts right now. I believe in you, Hermione. You’re going to pass and you’re going to get that job. Now let’s go.”

* * *

There went another week, lost to studying and then exam-taking. It felt rather like she hadn’t graduated at all, except now she was studying in either in her new apartment or in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and Kreacher would occasionally make her tea.

It was a good distraction: Harry had told her and Ginny that Ron was out on mission again, in France this time, and she threw herself into her work, wondering who he’d be when he came back.

Finally, it was the morning of the test, and Hermione got dressed in her best robes and traveled down to the Ministry. The graduate programs were hosted on one of the higher floors, and she entered the student lounge.

It was shabby, but comfortable. The secretarial students and the accounting students were having their final exams that day, too, and there were dozens of young adults clustered around teapots, pouring cups and whispering to one another. House-elves flitted between the tables, serving the tea.

She joined the people who were going to be in the class above her in a wide room with whitewashed walls and dingy, beat-up benches. A few people stared at her as she took her seat among them, and she smiled nervously back, wondering if they were more surprised by her reputation or by the fact that she was sitting the exam with them and hadn’t taken the class.

The First Year professor walked in—Kensington—and magicked the test papers out to the students. He smirked at Hermione when he saw her.

“Might I remind you all that any verified cheating on these exams will land you a term in Azkaban,” he said, addressing the class. “You may begin.”

* * *

The First Year Criminal Law exam was the hardest test Hermione had ever taken. There was a multiple-choice section and then a number of essay questions.

_Rigby is a wizard married to a Muggle and they have three minor-aged magical children. Pamela, his wife, is out shopping with the children when Rigby receives word that his mother has been stricken with a deadly case of Malignant Toenail Fungus. Rigby creates a Portkey for his family out of a tea kettle in his kitchen without filling in the requisite Ministry forms. He Apparates to see his mother. Their Muggle housekeeper arrives before his wife and children get home and unknowingly touches the Portkey, which transports her._

_Discuss the criminal liability, if any, of Rigby._

And so on.

It was difficult to put herself in the right frame of mind: to look honestly at the cases, separate out the different relevant offenses and their possible defenses, and put aside emotion. Poor Rigby was getting charged with an aggravated violation of the International Statute of Secrecy, largely due to the material used—he ought to have at least chosen an old boot in an outdoor junk pile for a Portkey, not a teapot.

She went back to Grimmauld Place after it was over, exhausted. Harry was in the living room and she greeted him with a tight hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

* * * 

A letter arrived a couple of days later and she opened it with trembling fingers. It was from Kensington.

 _“Dear Miss Granger,”_ it read, _“Much to my displeasure, I have been required by your performance on my Criminal Law exam to award you the passing grade of Acceptable. Best of luck with your job search and I look forward to seeing you in my class this autumn.”_

Hermione clutched the letter to her chest, dizzy.

“What’s the matter?” Harry’s voice came behind her.

She shook her head, breathless. “I passed.”

“You did?!” Harry grabbed the letter from her and scanned it. He threw his arms around her. “I knew you could do it!”

“Barely,” she breathed. It was an Acceptable—the lowest grade she had ever gotten. It wasn’t even an Exceeds Expectations, and she was used to getting nothing but Outstandings. She grinned. “But it’s good enough.”

“It sure is.” Harry beamed at her. “Look out, world. Let’s get you that interview with Bartleby!”

* * *  
One completely restless night later, Hermione was back walking through the Ministry atrium, looking for Bartleby’s office.

“The Criminal Law people like to be near the action,” Harry had said, explaining that Bartleby had gotten one of the coveted suites on the same floor as the Auror Department.

Hermione stood tall as she walked through the atrium amid the late-morning arrivals, trying to think positive thoughts and telling herself she was about to belong in this crowd of commuters. She stepped into the lift.

“Hold it—” Mr. Weasley barged in at the last minute, throwing his arm out as a defense against the closing gate. He had on a mud-splattered fisherman’s hat over his traveling cloak and was clutching an armload of muddy papers. He grinned when he caught sight of her. “Hermione! What brings you to the Ministry?”

“I’ve got a job interview,” she said, her voice sounding bright even though her knees were starting to shake.

“A job? That’s fantastic! Best of luck to you.” He faced the elevator door with the rest of them as the lift jangled up another floor, then addressed her again. “Say, speaking of jobs, you haven’t seen my Ron lately, have you?”

“Ron? No,” Hermione felt a pang for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They must not be in the loop about Ron’s work trips. “I saw him last week for dinner though.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Weasley. “That’s good to hear. His mother and I haven’t heard one word from him since he moved out.”

“I’m sure he’ll have you over soon,” said Hermione, feeling sorry for him. Mr. Weasley was staring down at his shoes in a somewhat lonely way.

Mr. Weasley shrugged. “Well, it’s—what is it the Muggles say? Saying lovey?”

_“C’est la vie?”_

“That’s it.” The lift opened and Mr. Weasley stepped out. “Good luck with your job interview! Let us know how it goes.”

Harry was waiting for her outside the lift when it opened. He greeted her with a hug. “I’ll walk you to Bartleby’s office,” he offered. “I’m so excited for you!”

“Thanks!” They started walking down the hall. “I’m really nervous,” Hermione confessed.

Harry nodded. “Don’t be. You’re going to do brilliantly. I bet no one’s ever done more to prepare for this interview than you just did.”

Harry left her outside Bartleby’s office, which was shut with a heavy door that looked very out of place. It was wood, but there was a glass window about three quarters of the way up. It would have been at home blocking off the front entrance to one of the smaller cottages on an old estate, but it looked quite ostentatious as the only door in a long hallway of open thresholds.

Hermione took a deep breath and rung the little bell which hung from a hook next to the door. It swung open of its own accord and she stepped over the threshold.

She was in a small waiting room filled with couches that must have been quite fancy years ago when it was first decorated. Across the room a young man sat behind a desk. He looked up when he saw her.

She crossed the room at a quick clip. “Good morning. I’m Hermione Granger; I’m here for an interview but I’m a bit early.”

The receptionist stuck out his hand and shook hers across the desk. “Matthew Davis. You _are_ early.”

Hermione gave what she hoped was a winning smile. “You know what they say––if you’re not early, you’re late.”

Matthew flashed open his lips for a bright smile that was gone a second later. “You’ll fit in. Bartleby’s with a client, though. I’ll let you know when he’s ready.”

He gestured at her to take a seat, which she did, fidgeting on the edge of one of the old couches until a door shut down an interior hallway and a couple came out in bright green robes, looking frazzled.

Matthew waved her down the hallway. “You’re up. Have a seat in his office; he’ll be with you in a minute.”

It was obvious which office was Bartleby’s: it was the shiny, polished one past all the shabby little doors right at the end of the hallway.

Bartleby’s office was cramped but ostentatious. It wouldn’t have been a small room if it had been filled with normal-sized furniture, but apparently Bartleby liked all his desks and chairs and shelves to be made of thick mahogany with carved claws at the bottom. Hermione took a seat in one of these chunky wooden chairs and waited nervously.

She didn’t have to wait long before a short but large man barged through the door behind her.

She stood up, smoothing her dress robes, and extended her hand. “Mr. Bartleby! Hermione Granger; it’s so nice to meet you. Thanks so much for taking the time to speak with me, I know you’re very busy—”

“Pleasure,” he said, brushing past her without shaking her hand to a standing globe in the corner. He flipped the top open to reveal multiple glass bottles of different liquors. “You’re a First Year student?” He demanded, barely glancing at her.

“Well, not exactly,” said Hermione, fiddling with the lining of her dress robes. “But I’m starting classes in September.”

He jerked his head up to look at her properly now, his cold steel blue eyes meeting her full in the face. “You haven’t taken any Law classes yet?” He shook his head in disgust. “God, _why_ do they keep wasting my time with all these unqualified—”

“I passed the First Year Criminal Law exam,” Hermione cut in quickly.

He looked at her again, listening this time. “You did? How?”

“I studied all year and read every book Hogwarts had.”

“What did you get?”

“An Acceptable,” Hermione said, trying to infuse her voice with confidence.

He raised his eyebrows. “An Acceptable? From Kensington?”

“That’s right,” said Hermione. Her voice was shaking a little but she couldn’t stop it, so she just kept talking. “I got an Acceptable on my own merits with no help and I got O’s on every single one of my N.E.W.T.s in the same time period. If I can do that on my own, imagine what I’ll be capable of in a few months when I’m studying law with a proper professor.”

Bartleby pulled out a drinking glass from a lower shelf. “You work hard?”

“Always.”

“You willing to take a pay cut?” He poured himself a glass of brandy. “I can’t bill your time at the same rate as the more advanced students.”

Hermione nodded. “I’m looking for experience, sir.”

Bartleby took a sip of his brandy, looking off toward the ceiling. “You know, this is actually good timing,” he said. “I’ve just this morning signed on several new clients who got swept up in an Auror raid.”

“You have?” Hermione exclaimed, feigning surprise.

He looked at her, then laughed and raised his glass in her direction. “Good girl. Knows exactly as much as you’re supposed to.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Hermione awkwardly.

“Even better. Careful evasion. Potter told me the truth and that I’d need the help. You okay working for the defense?” He tipped his glass toward her. “Defense is where all the money is, in these cases. A bunch of old-money purebloods with everything to lose, being prosecuted by penniless idealists on a government payroll.”

“I believe in justice and the right to a fair trial,” said Hermione carefully. “All of your clients will receive my best work and an honest effort.”

Bartleby swallowed the rest of his brandy. “Good answer. Can you start tomorrow? I need someone to take notes for a preliminary client meeting.”

Hermione felt like she had suddenly lost contact with her feet and was floating on air. She couldn’t believe her luck. “Of course. What time?”

He looked at her sharply. “Eight. And after that, as early as you can get here. I run a tight ship, Miss Granger.”

“Of course, sir,” said Hermione hurriedly. “I’ll be the earliest one in.”

“Brilliant, looking forward to work with you.” Bartleby waved her away with one hand while he used the other to slam his empty brandy glass on his desk.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, but he only nodded and waved her away again without looking up. She backed out of the office and waited until she was down the hall and around the corner before she clasped her hands in delight and took a little hop of joy.

* * *

“Harry, I got a _job!”_ She exclaimed as soon as she’d Apparated back to Grimmauld Place.

“No way—already?! That’s fantastic! When do you start?” Harry threw his arms around her, and so did Ginny, causing them to lurch dangerously sideways until they split apart.

“Tomorrow morning!” Hermione brushed her hair out of her face, unable to believe her luck. “Eight o’clock sharp.”

Ginny whistled.

“Wow!” Said Harry. “In the Auror Office we’re barely taking our cloaks off by nine-thirty.”

“I know,” said Hermione, grinning. “It sounds like _loads_ of work. I can’t wait.”

She thanked Harry profusely and swore up and down he’d be getting his money back the moment she had it, and he said it was no trouble, no rush; he’d had full faith she could do it.

Ginny grinned and congratulated her and said she had some exciting news, too—she’d be leaving with the Holyhead Harpies in a couple of weeks for the European leg of the Quidditch season, and she was taking Harry with her.

“That’s brilliant!” Hermione gasped, genuinely happy for her but struggling to fight off the rising panic inside her. Ron was still out on mission with no idea when he’d be back. What was she going to do without them all?

“Yeah, turns out saving the world has its perks,” said Harry, grinning. “In the form of extra vacation days.”

“Goodness, yes; it’ll be brilliant to steal this one away from the office.” Ginny wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then she hung on his neck, her eyes searching. “You will find a way to let us know if something’s happened to Ron, though, won’t you?”

Harry nodded, his expression turning more serious. “I’ll do my best. Williamson keeps threatening to send me at least _some_ paperwork, and when I get back I’ll have access to all Ron’s files.”

“They write that stuff down?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Harry bit his lip. “Not exactly,” he said, looking pained. “It’s sort of…well, it’s almost a code, I guess. Last time, Williamson had me write up the report and I called it a ‘regrettable instance of an Unforgivable Curse’ followed by a ‘therapeutic recalibration.’”

“That’s some dense language,” said Hermione, taking mental notes. “You mean there’s no record of exactly what happened and how? No one wrote down that it was the Imperius Curse? What if someone wanted to charge Rudolphus Lestrange?”

She saw a conflicted look pass into Harry’s eyes. “Well, in his case we already had plenty to nail his estate on,” he said after a moment. “And Ferreira killed him when the rescue team went in. I’m not sure what we would have done about Ron’s memory if he’d lived and stood trial, honestly.”

“Ah,” said Hermione.

Later she wrote a note to Ron talking about the job and how she got it and how excited she was and wishing him all the best. She Apparated to his apartment and quietly slipped it under the door without knocking. He’d get it as soon as he returned, and he’d be happy too and they could celebrate together just like old times.

* * *

Hermione was concerned that she might not wake up in time to be at work by eight, so she set an alarm for four-thirty just in case. She crawled out of her new twin bed and made herself a cup of tea and refreshed her memory on Criminal Law from her notes. 

She was ready to go by seven. She’d wanted to leave enough time to get to work by Muggle transportation in the event she unexpectedly forgot how to Apparate, but Apparating worked fine, so she spent the next hour pacing around the atrium and nibbling on an overpriced biscuit at the Ministry cafeteria.

At ten to eight she presented herself inside Bartleby’s office, where she met his associate, Oyinlola Ele. 

Ele led her into one of the dingy doors in the hall. It opened to reveal a tiny office. The room had definitely been a broom closet at one point—there was a shelf stretched across the far end that looked oddly enlarged—and it was windowless, with just a desk for furniture. The desk was so big and the room so small that it cut the office in half, with just a few inches of space to squeeze against the wall and get behind the desk.

“Here’s your office,” said Ele. She flipped open a briefcase on the desk. “Parchment, binder, Quick Quotes Quill. Mostly, you’ll be taking notes with the Quill and then coming back here and summarizing them for Bartleby. You’ll also be doing a lot of document review.”

Hermione nodded, trying to keep up. She’d heard of document review—it was the tedious process of reading through lengthy documents and deeds looking for relevant words or concepts.

Ele unfurled an additional scroll, which hung by itself in the air when she let go of it.

“Your most important task is filling out your timesheet,” she said. “We track time in six-minute increments and bill clients by the hour. If you’re not working for six minutes or more, you need to denote that on the sheet because we don’t make money off your bathroom breaks. Write down what you’re doing. The time you take writing it all down you can bill to the firm.”

Hermione raised her hand to ask a question, then realized she looked stupid doing so—force of habit. She meekly put her hand back down, but Ele had already seen and looked quizzically at her.

“Am I being paid by the hour, then?” Hermione asked.

Ele shook her head. “No, hardly. You’re on a fixed salary regardless of how many hours you work. But, if you put in two thousand hours extra per year, we’ll reward you with a bonus of one thousand galleons.”

Hermione practically gasped. That was her entire debt to Harry! It didn’t even have to come out of her salary!

“You need to put in at least forty hours of client-billable work per week,” Ele was saying now, “Or else it doesn’t make sense for us to keep you on. You can go over that by as many hours as you like. Any questions?”

The prospect of losing her job over too little work was worrisome. “What if I don’t have enough client work one week to hit that mark?” She asked.

Ele stared at her a second, then burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed, then bent over, clutching her stomach. “Oh, you’re funny.” She glanced down at her watch. “Bartleby’s ready for you.”

Ele quickly ran through how to fill out her timesheet, then led her back out to the lobby.

The enchanted scroll followed her, knocking gently against her shoulder.

“Bill that half hour to the firm for your training,” Ele instructed, so Hermione pulled a quill from the briefcase Ele had given her and scrawled it down. “And the next will be billable to a client. Go ahead and make a note so the scroll won’t bother you; sometimes it gets a little pushy if it thinks you’re not working.”

As Hermione was doing that Bartleby came through the door of the firm, wrapped in a grey-blue traveling cloak and holding a battered briefcase.

“Just in time!” He exclaimed in a booming voice. “Ready, Granger?”

“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” Hermione gathered up her things and followed him down the hall toward his office.

A chill had fallen in the hall and the lights looked dimmer. Hermione shivered—it felt as if Dementors were near.

Bartleby walked along at a quick clip, unbothered. “You’ll be assisting me with my newest client. He let go of his previous legal counsel after the man _insisted_ he enter a guilty plea.”

“Is he guilty?” Hermione couldn’t help asking.

Bartleby shot her a quelling look. “Not if we have anything to say about it. A good lawyer can make a case for anything.”

He pulled open the door and Hermione found herself face to face with her first client.

Three pairs of identical grey eyes looked up at her, and and four jaws fell open—hers as well.

There in Bartleby’s office sat the Malfoy family.


	23. The Malfoy Case

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy, Madam Malfoy.” Bartleby bustled in with a curt nod. He took a seat behind the desk and patted the seat next to him, indicating Hermione should join. “This is my paralegal, Miss Granger. She’ll be taking notes during our preliminary consultation today.”

Hermione went to the seat he’d indicated, feeling like she’d lost contact with her feet again, but this time it wasn’t in a good way. She opened her binder and nervously pulled out the Quick Quotes Quill. She hadn’t used one before.

She caught Draco looking at her and met his eyes.

 _“Scribere,”_ he mouthed.

She nodded her utmost thanks and whispered the spell. To her immense relief, the quill rose in the air and poised itself over the top left hand corner of the parchment.

She caught Bartleby looking disdainfully at her. “Are you ready yet, Miss Granger?” He demanded.

Hermione nodded and shifted in her seat to sit up straighter. “Yes, sir.”

Bartleby sat back in his leather chair and knit his fingertips together. “Tea, anyone?”

Mrs. Malfoy gave the most delicate nod, so Bartleby snapped his fingers and a house-elf appeared at once. Hermione jumped in her seat.

The elf was holding a tray of tea and crumpets, which she slid onto the desk, shaking, then snapped her fingers and vanished without ever saying a word.

Bartleby poured a cup of tea for Narcissa, who dropped in a single sugar cube and stirred it.

Draco was looking at Hermione again. His eyes seemed to be asking what she was doing there. Hermione sat up more professionally and straightened her parchment on the desk, looking to Bartleby for instructions.

“Well.” Bartleby looked down at the desk for a long pause, then fixed Lucius Malfoy with a smile. “It’s an honor to be of service to such a distinguished client. I can assure you my office will work towards your release with the utmost diligence.”

Lucius’ eyes flicked to Hermione. Bartleby followed them and his lip curled.

“Not to worry, my dear Mr. Malfoy. I assure you everyone in my office operates with the utmost discretion and professionalism.”

Lucius relaxed a little, but he still seemed ill at ease. His face was thinner, worn; his eyes had sunk into his face, giving him a haunted look. 

“Now.” Bartleby put his hands together on the desk and leaned forward, looking gravely at them. Then he fixed each of the Malfoys in turn with a grave look: Lucius, Narcissa, then Draco. Draco shifted under his gaze. “I heard from my office that you recently let go of your previous legal counsel. Could you walk me through that decision, please?”

“He was a goddamned fool,” said Lucius, his voice gruff, grinding out of him like the first notes from a rusty set of gears. “Twenty years of friendship, and he regrets taking on my case? I pay him double his normal rate, and then I find out he’s trying to pawn me off in favor of winning damages for some Mudblood who didn’t take the hint and get out of the way?”

Hermione felt her blood beginning to heat up. Across the table, Draco had his jaw clenched, looking fixedly at a spot on the wall behind Bartleby.

Narcissa laid a calming hand on her husband’s arm and whispered something sharp. She smiled at Bartleby and Hermione, baring perfect white teeth. “What Lucius means is that his previous legal counsel was not fully invested in the case,” she said. “He insisted Lucius file a guilty plea, but my husband is, of course, not guilty.”

Hermione must have betrayed her reaction in some way, because Narcissa smiled at her after a moment and folded her hands in her lap. “There were...extenuating circumstances.”

“Of course. There often are.” Bartleby glanced down at the thin case file he had open in front of him. “Mr. Malfoy, would you mind walking me through the particulars of the case? The charges, and the possible penalties?”

Lucius Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pulling his robes tighter around his thin frame. “Harboring a fugitive, false imprisonment, accessory to grand assault, conspiracy to commit high treason,” he muttered.

Bartleby nodded and said in a voice that was completely unimpressed, “So a range of interrelated charges which carry a number of various penalties.”

“Serious ones,” Narcissa interjected, leaning forward. “They’re not just trying to put him away in Azkaban. They’re trying to take his _soul.”_

Bartleby jotted something down. “Yes, conspiracy can carry a charge up to and including the Dementor’s Kiss.” He knit his fingers together and smiled at Narcissa in a way Hermione assumed was meant to be calming. “But penalties are a matter of degree. Given the extenuating circumstances, we can certainly enter a not guilty plea, and should it be overturned for any reason we can then argue for one of the less severe penalties.”

Narcissa sank back and glanced fearfully at Lucius, who seemed to be taking all this in.

“Fine,” Lucius said at last. “What’s your strategy?”

Bartleby leaned back in his chair. “There are essentially four ways one could approach a case like this. We could keep delaying the trial on technical grounds until the public has lost its appetite for punishment or a less legalistic administration is in place. We could plead not guilty; the burden of proof will be on the prosecution, so this could work in the event you can show me the proof is not overwhelming or is somehow inaccessible. You could plead guilty, which I understand is what your former counsel told you to do, throwing yourself on the mercy of the court in a situation that may not really render you the justice you deserve. Or you could take a plea deal, should one be offered.”

“They aren’t offering a plea deal,” said Lucius gruffly. “The Ministry says I haven’t got any information he hasn’t already given them.” He glanced sharply over at Draco, who looked down at the floor like he hadn’t heard.

Bartleby nodded. “That’s quite all right. Now, I will need to know the facts of the case from the beginning, as well as any prior convictions you may have.”

Lucius ran through the charges, aided by Narcissa, who kept jumping in to clarify or to paint a bleak picture of life under Voldemort’s thumb. Bartleby nodded along, never betraying the slightest hint of an emotion, while Hermione dug her fingernails into her arm to try and stay calm as she listened to Lucius try and argue that Luna’s imprisonment in his basement had been her own fault. Draco never said a word, but his face was like an ocean: silent, swirling, stormy. 

At last the consultation was over and Hermione took a breath for what felt like the first time in two hours. The door opened, and two Aurors entered, flanked by their Patronuses. Two Dementors were beyond them, turning the hallway cold and gloomy, and the Aurors prodded Lucius into the hall where the Death Eaters seized each of his arms in a bony grip. 

Draco waited until the others had left and it was just him and Hermione and Bartleby in the room.

“He’s guilty,” said Draco, turning to face them. “I just thought you should know that. He did everything they’re accusing him of, and more.”

Bartleby half rose from his chair, lifting his hand to stop him. “Mr. Malfoy, as your lawyer I hardly need to know—”

“But now you do,” said Draco flatly. “He ought to stay in Azkaban, or somewhere similar. But he doesn’t deserve the Dementor’s Kiss. No one does.”

Draco stared down Bartleby for a moment, then abruptly turned on his heel and left the room. 

Hermione shuffled her papers together nervously. “Sir, in the interest of ethics, you should know that I could easily be regarded as one of Mr. Malfoy’s victims.” 

Bartleby had gone to his globe in the corner and was pouring himself a glass of brandy. “Yes, I know.” 

She blinked. “You do?” 

“Of course, Miss Granger. What, you don’t think I read through the files from his son’s plea deal when determining if I should take this case?” 

“So...is it ethical for me to be working on this particular client?” 

Bartleby nodded. “Of course. Had the prosecution called you, we would have had you dismissed as a victim.” 

“Why?” 

Bartleby titled back his head and downed half the glass of brandy in one go. It wasn’t a large glass, but Hermione found herself wondering what exactly the daytime alcohol policy in this office was and if it allowed for drinking by anyone except Bartleby. 

“Mr. Malfoy didn’t take any offensive action against you. His only crime was owning the manor in which you were kept, and our team is taking the position that it was improperly seized from him and he was in fact himself a prisoner there. Unless, that is, there is some instance where he directly harmed you that I missed in the reports?” 

“No, no.” She looked down, some of her nervousness abating: she needed to keep this job. 

“And you’ll have other clients, too. Not to worry.” Bartleby tapped his temple with his index finger and grinned.


	24. Civil Disagreements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter 11/27/19 and the changes affect a couple of details going forward. You can refer to the original chapter here if you have any desire to! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586105/chapters/51467587

Hermione left the office just after five after spending the rest of the afternoon helping Ele take down a deposition from an elderly woman called Babbity Bibshot who was appealing a conviction she’d gotten from selling Muggle dishwashers in Diagon Alley. It was a bit of a relief to see that defending clients of the sort whose own children thought they were guilty would not be her entire job. 

She spotted Pigwidgeon flying toward her in the atrium, and was caught between nervousness and relief––Ron must be back, and okay, if he was able to contact her again. But had he been okay the whole time, or was he about to have regressed a year or so and think they had just started dating? 

The note was short, and it was in Ron’s writing––he just wanted to know her new address. She scribbled it down and sent Pigwidgeon off again. 

Hermione got home and had barely had time to put her work things away and start wondering if she had it in her to figure out how to cook when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Ron, who greeted her with a big hug and an enormous grin. 

“Hermione!” 

She pulled him in at once, shutting the door, and he looked around, grinning. 

“Nice place you’ve got! I brought us some proper wine to celebrate. None of that Muggle stuff.” He waved a bottle of banana wine and set it on her coffee table, using his wand to pop the cork and summoning two of her wine glasses from the kitchen. “So, tell me all about this new job of yours!” 

Hermione took the wine, beaming, giving herself a moment just to bask in the warmth of having a happy moment together. It was good to see him smiling again, good to be friends again; it had been months and months since they had had an evening together that hadn’t involved a fight. 

“It’s a legal job,” she said. 

“A legal job?” Ron clinked his glass against hers in celebration, then took a sip. “That’s just what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

“Sure is!” Hermione set her glass down. “It was crazy hard for me to get a job.” 

“For you? Really?” Ron scoffed, his eyes twinkling. 

“Yeah, I know, right?” She sank back into the deep cushy foam of the couch. “You’d think saving the world would be more of a boost for my CV, but not in this profession, apparently.” 

“Really!” Ron fell into the couch next to her, just managing to land without spilling his drink. “I didn’t even have to interview for the Auror job. Some remedial spell training for N.E.W.T.-level curse-breaking and some rebuilding spells for the Hogwarts case, and that was it.” 

“I wish!” Hermione laughed. “No, these lawyers wouldn’t even talk to me without a first-year transcript. Apparently you’re not qualified to argue in court until you’ve got the thickness of every brand of cauldron bottom down pat.” 

“Wow, have you told Percy he’s missing out on his dream career?” 

“Oh, you. But yeah. You missed loads.” She sipped the wine. It was sweet with spicy notes. “I had to borrow money off Harry and talk my way into taking one of the Magical Law tests early to even get consideration. I crammed a whole semester of graduate-level study into one week.” 

Ron groaned loudly. “Sounds like you’re really living it up.” 

She whacked him playfully on the shoulder. “Shut up. Anyhow, I passed, I did it, and I got this legal job! So, it all worked out.” 

“Right, right.” Ron downed another large sip of wine and poured himself more from the bottle. “So who’s the job with? What firm?” 

“It’s with the offices of Bartimeus Bartleby,” said Hermione.

Ron’s grip tightened on the glass and he shot her a look. “Bartleby?” 

Hermione’s stomach did a little flip. “Yes, you know him?” 

Ron shook his head. “Sometimes, with the Auror office...he got Swarthington off, you know. Got his charges reduced to just ten years in Azkaban. He’ll reoffend; we wanted the Kiss. But what are you working with him on? Property law? I know he also does a lot of inheritance cases.” 

Hermione looked down at the table. “Er, well, Criminal Law, actually. As a paralegal.” 

“He’s becomes a prosecutor, then?” Ron downed half his glass in a single gulp and inclined his head toward her. “Good for him. Who’s the client?” 

Hermione shook her head. “I can’t say.” 

Ron laughed. “What do you mean, you can’t say?” 

“I can’t. It’s legal professional privilege. I can’t breathe a word of it to anybody unless the client tells me to.” 

Ron propped up the bottle of wine between the armchair and the last cushion so it wouldn’t tip and used his free hand to caress her shoulder. “But I’m your boyfriend. Don’t I get significant other privileges?” 

Hermione laughed, swatting his hand away. “I’m afraid not. I could be fined for all I’m worth and I’d certainly lose my job, you know that?” 

“But I wouldn’t tell.” 

She snorted. “As if. You tell everybody everything.” 

Ron frowned. “So you can’t ever tell me? I’ll never know?” 

“Only if you came to the trial and saw where I was sitting.” 

“But you won’t tell me?” 

She shook her head and gave him a small smile. “No.” 

Ron sank back into the couch and sucked in his breath. “God, I hate having secrets between us.” 

Hermione shot him a look, pained. She couldn’t fix that. Even if she were to tell him about the Malfoy case, she still wouldn’t be able to clear away the one big secret that would––according to Williamson, at least––ruin his life and his health if she told him. 

“So, how was France?” 

“Rainy.” 

“Anything interesting happen?” 

Ron shook his head. “I can’t say. It’s classified.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “See, you’ve got secrets, too.” 

“It’s different in my case,” said Ron huffily. 

“It really isn’t.” Hermione set her wine glass on the ground and stood up, groaning with the effort it took to heave herself out of the deep couch. “I’ll be right back, I’ve got to hit the loo.” 

She crossed to the bedroom and let herself into the bathroom, which was the only room that hadn’t needed to be magically enlarged. She and Ginny had still put up a nice teal color on the walls. 

From outside, she heard the noise of an owl tapping to be let in at the window. “Ron, can you let that owl in?” She yelled. 

“Got it!” 

Hermione washed up and spent a moment trying to finagle her curls into a nice bun. They were as wild as ever and she quickly gave up, shooting her hair a dirty look in the mirror as she went out. 

It was awfully quiet in the flat. She stepped into the living room to see Ron standing, his face ashen, looking down at a piece of parchment he’d unfolded. 

“Ron?” She said. He looked up. Her eyes landed on the noble-looking owl perched royally on the edge of the couch and her jaw tightened. “What are you doing with that? Are you reading my mail?” 

Ron lowered the note. His face was white as paper. He seemed to be trembling slightly. “It’s Lucius Malfoy, isn’t it?” He spat. “Your mysterious client?” 

“What are you talking about?” Hermione strode forward and snatched the note from his hands. 

“That’s why you wouldn’t tell me, isn’t it? Legal professional privilege, my arse.” His laugh was hollow. “No, you just knew I wouldn’t like it.” 

Hermione glanced down at the note. It was newly arrived, and in Draco Malfoy’s thin neat hand. 

_“Evening, Granger,”_ it said. _“Surprised to see you on my father’s case. Can we talk?”_

“You did,” she said, and now she was shaking, too. Her eyes fell on the open envelope on the couch, emblazoned with an enormous wax Malfoy seal Ron had carefully heated and slid off. “You opened my mail!” 

Ron shrugged defensively. “Shouldn’t I know what twats like him are writing to you? I figured you were about to tell me anyway.” 

She whacked herself in the thigh with the letter, torn between fury and exasperation. “Ron!” 

He looked at her, his eyes bright and dangerous. “Is it true?” 

“Is what true?” 

“You’re working for Lucius Malfoy? Working to––to get him off?” 

Hermione’s voice faltered. “I...I can’t answer that.” 

“Oh, God, it’s true.” Ron picked up his wine glass and shotgunned the rest of it, then smashed it down too hard on the coffee table, making her shriek––it shattered. He cursed loudly and repaired it swiftly with his hand. “You have got to be kidding me. How could you do this to me? And then lie about it?” 

“Do it to you?” Hermione had stepped back when he broke the glass and now she was on the other side of the living room. “This has nothing to do with you, Ron. And I really can’t tell you. Read the introduction to any Magical Law book.” 

Ron was shaking his head, breathing hard. He poured more wine into his repaired glass and took a sip, shuddering like he was trying to calm himself. 

Hermione felt like her skin was crawling, looking at him. 

He breathed heavily, then slammed his glass down, fixing her with a glare. “Get off the case.” 

“Excuse me?” Hermione stood up, too. She was a good foot shorter than him, but he looked less threatening from up here. 

“I said, get off the case. You’ll get off the case.” 

Hermione crossed her arms and her eyes flashed. “No.” 

“You have to!” Ron threw his arms out, his voice loud and desperate. “You have to get off it! I can’t have you representing him.” 

“I’m going to be a lawyer!” Hermione’s voice grew louder. “This is what lawyers do, Ron. They uphold the law! For everyone! We’re not _judges!”_

“I wish you were,” Ron muttered, glowering. He seized the bottle and drank directly from it. “I mean, how is this supposed to go? How am I supposed to introduce you at parties now? Er, ‘Hello, fellow Aurors. This is my girlfriend. She’s representing a convicted Death Eater.’” 

“He’s not convicted yet,” said Hermione, her face burning. “That’s the entire point of the trial. To argue if he should be convicted.” 

“Whatever!” Ron turned his face in anguish. “How is that going to make me look, huh? What are they going to think of you?” 

“You’ll tell them that we saved the world and now I’m working for justice!” Hermione said, her voice sounding a little hysterical. “They already know who I am, Ronald! I’m famous too!” 

“The Malfoys are reputational poison! Even Pansy freaking Parkinson doesn’t associate with them!” 

“Since when do you care about reputation?!”

“Since you decided to spend all your time mixing with Death Eaters!” 

Hermione frowned, her lip trembling slightly. “I _don’t_ spend all my—” 

Ron took another swig before setting the bottle on the table. “Even Malfoy wants you off it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Ron shrugged and pointed at the note. “They can’t like having you on the case. Not since you attacked him and got him thrown out of Hogwarts.” 

“I apologized,” said Hermione, tightening her arms. “I apologized and he came back and I helped him pass his N.E.W.T.s.” 

“You apologized?” The expression in Ron’s eyes looked dangerous. She didn’t think she’d told him about the apology even when he’d had his full memory. 

“I was in the wrong,” she said firmly. “He apologized, too. First, actually. He’s reformed.” 

“They don’t reform,” said Ron. “They’re using you. They’re all Slytherins—cunning, that’s what they are. Cunning and manipulative and sly and bastards, every one of them...” he was pacing now, fists clenched. “You’ll never be anything but a Mudblood to him.” 

“Excuse you?” Hermione’s eyes stung. 

Ron swirled to face her. “He thinks of you as lesser, Hermione. As subhuman. He’ll never respect you.” 

“He’s actually been very nice to me!” Her voice tore from her lips, sounding more high pitched and passionate than she remembered. “He showed me loads of useful spells at school. He showed me how to erase books and store the text in potion bottles in case you need to hide it or get a blank book, and how to use a Quick Quotes Quill, and how to copy text—”

“Secretary skills?” Ron gave a hollow laugh. “Course he did. He knows you don’t know those spells. He wants you to have the know-how to get his father off. Don’t you realize you’re making them look good by working for them?” 

Hermione was lost for words. 

“Face it, Hermione. You’re still just a Mudblood to him.” 

She stomped her foot. “Stop _calling_ me that!” 

“I’m not calling you—“ 

“Stop saying it! Nobody says that to me! Nobody gets to say it!” 

Ron stepped back, raising his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“I know you didn’t.” She was still breathing heavily. 

He turned and looked away. “You need to get off the case, though.” 

She crossed her arms. “And do what? Become an Auror?” 

Ron turned to her, his eyes full of hope. “Yes!” 

Hermione bit her lip. “I can’t do that, Ron. I can’t. You don’t understand—“ 

“Why not? Why can’t you just be on the good side again?” His voice was full of longing. 

“I am on the good side,” she said. “But there are a lot of bad people on the good side. Someone needs to restrain the Ministry. No one deserves the Dementor’s Kiss, not even Lucius Malfoy; it’s beneath us as a society. It’s horrible beyond imagining.” 

“Does Harry know who you’re representing?” 

“Harry got me the job. He’s on my side.” 

“He won’t be after I’m through with him!” 

Hermione took an instinctive step back. Ron’s fists were clenched; he was breathing heavily through his nostrils.

Her fingers found their way to her opposite elbows, tugging at the yarn of her sweater. “I have to go,” she said, her heart racing. “I forgot. I had plans with Luna before I knew you’d be coming back.” 

“With Luna?” Ron’s eyebrows arched like he didn’t believe her. 

“Yeah.” Hermione picked up her beaded bag and made for the door. She just needed to get out. He had spoiled her evening; she didn’t want a fight…

She turned in the threshold, the panic she felt rapidly transmorphing into anger. “Calm down, won’t you? I won’t be with you if you act like this.” She spun and Disapparated before she could catch his response. 

But she didn’t go to Luna’s. It was dangerous, Disapparating when you were upset and without a clear destination in mind. She found herself on a street corner in Hampstead. The sun was almost down, thank goodness, and she had on her blackest robes, because it was a Muggle street. It was where she had grown up. 

Hermione looked out at the melted red remnants of the sunset and tried to take a deep breath, but found it difficult. There was a bus stop just feet away, and she took shelter under it, collapsing onto the bench with her elbows on her knees. There was so much swirling around in her mind: Ron, and angry Ron, and hurt Ron, and proud Ron; but also Draco, and the look on his face when his father blamed him for ruining his chances at a plea deal…

She waited a little longer until she was sure Ron had gone home, then Apparated back, heart thudding as she pulled open the door to her flat. It was dark and empty, thank goodness. She needed the quiet; she had to be up early again for work. 

She put herself to bed, but then she just laid there, looking at the dark shadows on the lilac wall Ginny had built for her, unable to fall asleep, until the sun’s first rays crept across the wall and she finally had an excuse to throw off her coverlet and stumble into work.


	25. Document Review

The office was already chaotic the moment she stepped in the door, and she arrived at seven-thirty. Bartleby was yelling something at Oyinlola Ele down the hall, and Narcissa’s voice joined in. 

“What do you _mean?”_ She was shouting. “Solitary confinement? Attorney-client travel privileges _suspended?”_

Matthew was hunched at the receptionist desk, deep into a Daily Prophet crossword puzzle like he was a child trying to block out the noise of his parents shouting. 

“What’s going on?” Hermione whispered, crossing the room to ask him. 

He shook his head, then yelled back, “Granger’s in!” 

“Granger!” Bartleby’s voice bellowed in answer. “Get in here!” 

Hermione flinched. 

Matthew gave a little shrug. “Sorry,” he whispered. “He’s been shouting for you since she arrived.” 

“But it’s seven-thirty––” 

“GRANGER!” 

Hermione scurried down the hall and into Bartleby’s office, her pulse already pounding. 

Bartleby was behind his desk, looking thunderous. Narcissa was standing opposite him, her face beet-red and pinched, and Ele was on her knees on the floor, digging through a mound of paperwork that had piled up all over the carpet like a snowstorm. 

“Yes, sir?” Hermione managed, her voice almost a squeak. 

Bartleby turned to address Narcissa, speaking in a calm, measured tone. “We will have all our staff working to rectify this issue at once, I assure you. We won’t sleep until we see your husband’s rights restored.” 

Narcissa glared at him. “See that they are.” 

Bartleby turned to Hermione. “Granger, last night the Auror office decided our client needed investigating because he might be smuggling correspondence by copying letters into his medicine bottles. Nothing was found, but they’re holding all the potions as evidence and are refusing to release them. Mr. Malfoy has been moved into solitary confinement, and until we can prove he is _not_ communicating with the outside world by disguising money orders as cough syrup, we shall all have to make regular visits to Azkaban to conduct trial preparation there.” 

Hermione felt like an invisible hand was squeezing her insides––her stomach turned as she vaguely recalled shouting something at Ron about how Draco knew how to empty books into potion bottles. Ron _wouldn’t_ have, surely––she nodded mutely. 

“You’ll be taking the lead on the document review. We’re going through _everything,_ and the bottles too as soon as the Auror Office lets us. Alert me at once if you see the merest _hint_ of impropriety in Mr. Malfoy’s files.” 

“Of course.” Hermione nodded. 

“And get this mess out of here. Do it in your office.” 

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the day hunched over papers in her tiny office. When everything was crammed in the little room, the stacks of paper got up to six feet high in some corners, and she found her mind wandering to how even a small earthquake would leave her buried in paper so deep she probably couldn’t pull the door open. The task was overwhelming, even though Ele helped her every moment she could, and even Matthew got ordered in to render some assistance. Lunchtime came and went and she wasn’t through a single stack, and dinner time came and went and she hadn’t gotten through three, but there genuinely was not a hint of impropriety––just like Bartleby had promised Narcissa. 

She stopped looking at her pocket watch after dinner. It was only stressing her out. It might have been midnight when sleep threatened to close her eyelids and the whole building fell silent except for her, her and Ele until Ele said she had other client work to get to. She was grateful for her beaded bag then, grateful for the coffee set she’d packed. She boiled water for it on a small flame, sheltering the light to keep it from igniting the mountains of paperwork around her. 

She drank five or six cups of coffee, she’d quite lost count, but then she was down to the very last stack of paper. She was starting to hear footsteps in the distance again, and a door slamming somewhere, and just as she finished reviewing the last bit of paper––Lucius’ _Happy Anniversary_ love letter to Narcissa, which was surprisingly passionate and even risqué––she heard Bartleby’s voice in the office, and then Narcissa herself, sounding like she hadn’t slept either. 

Bartleby threw open the door to Hermione’s office and she jumped to attention. 

“You’re here early,” he said, surveying the stacks of paper and glancing at his watch. It looked from her angle like it might be six in the morning. 

“I’ve just finished,” she said, as Narcissa appeared behind him. “There’s nothing, sir. I’ve reviewed every last piece of paper. No secret messages, no hidden spells; nothing.” 

Bartleby nodded, satisfied. “I got the Auror Office to release the medicines to me,” he said, turning to Narcissa. “I examined them myself. There was nothing hidden at all.” 

Narcissa almost collapsed, she looked so relieved, but she pulled herself up to standing ramrod straight again. “Good,” she said. “See to it this situation is resolved.” 

“We will,” Bartleby assured her. He turned to Hermione. “Hold the documents in here until we’ve cleared up this whole mess. You can come and do your work in the lobby. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.” 

Hermione joined Ele in the lobby. 

“You were here all night?” Ele asked, handing her a stack of blank parchment to write up her findings for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

Hermione nodded, pinching herself to try and keep her eyes open. 

Ele smiled warmly. “It’s a good way to prove your mettle. If you check your timesheet, I bet you’ll find you’re well on your way to getting a bonus. Have you eaten anything?” 

Hermione shook her head, and Ele slipped her a biscuit, which she tore into ravenously. She did check her timesheet––the thing was still floating by her shoulder like an annoying gnat––and she found she’d already worked thirty-two hours in less than three days. Maybe she would be able to get up to two thousand extra hours and pay Harry back in under a year. 

Hermione wrote up her findings and presented them to Bartleby, who gave her some terse notes on style and made her rewrite them five more times before he was finally satisfied and marched off to complain to the MLE Department Head. She waited until Ele wasn’t looking, then stormed down the hall to the Auror Office. Ron was at his desk for once. 

“We need to talk.” 

She pulled him into one of the meeting rooms and cast a _Muffliato_ charm on the room. 

“What’s up?” Ron looked pleasant––smiling, even. She’d dodged a kiss from him on the way into the room. 

She turned on him now. “Did you order an Auror raid on Lucius Malfoy’s cell?” 

Ron grinned. “It happened? Thank goodness; I never get any follow up. It’s like shouting into an abyss around here, you never know what they do with the tip-offs. Did they find anything?” 

“You––you _did?”_ She gasped, clenching the back of a chair with white knuckles. 

Ron nodded. “You’d said something about potion bottles, and hiding writing in them, and I just thought, I know he’s an influential man. Might be worth checking.”

Hermione stared at him, her mouth open, stunned. “I can’t believe you did this! I told you that, _in confidence;_ you had no reason to suspect––they didn’t even find anything, but they took away his medicine, and now Narcissa’s gone ballistic––” 

“So they didn’t find anything?” Ron shrugged. “Guess he was innocent, then. Maybe you’re right and he’s not as terrible as I thought.” 

“You _guess?”_ Hermione took a shaky breath, trying to sort out her words. “I––they’ve put him in solitary confinement, he’s been sick, apparently, and they’ve turned the Manor upside down. Now they’re not even letting him leave Azkaban for attorney meetings, which means I’m going to have to go to Azkaban maybe as often as every day, and––” 

Ron still looked unperturbed. “I think it was a good thing." 

“You had no right to do this!” She dropped her voice to a hiss. “Ron, if they trace this back to me I could lose my _job––”_

Ron was looking at her, and she swore she could see his mind working. Finally he looked down at the table. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you,” he said, with some effort. “I didn’t tell them how I figured it out. It was an anonymous tip.” 

“You damn well should have asked me!” She crumpled into one of the chairs, exhausted. “You don’t understand; attorney-client privilege; it’s practically the cornerstone of...Ron, I haven’t slept in twenty-eight hours…” 

“I’m sorry,” said Ron again, softly, and he looked it. He laid a hesitant hand on her shoulders. “Maybe we can be a team, though? If you think there _is_ anything to look into, I’ll get it done.” 

She groaned and closed her eyes, wishing she could stay there longer, maybe take a nap on the cold table. But Bartleby would be back any minute. 

* * *

Bartleby came back in high spirits. “You did brilliantly!” He shouted at Hermione, startling her away from Volume Three of the Magical Law Code, which Ele had her using to put together a primer on prisoner’s rights. “They’ve restored his medicines straightaway and Mrs. Malfoy is calming down, finally. Excellent work! I have to say, I really didn’t expect much of you, being straight out of Hogwarts and all, but you’ve proven yourself and you really might have a future at this firm.” 

Hermione thanked him and tried to feel happy about these words she’d been dying to hear, but all she felt was sick and exhausted. 

Bartleby was still talking. “Now that we have someone on our team who excels at document review, we can get you into more advanced work! I’ve got a quitclaim deed that needs edited by seven.” He tossed a scroll at her, which she almost dropped. “Take a look and adjust anything that conflicts with the client’s right to confidentiality. And use the same color ink, mind you; there’s no need to make the adjustments any more obvious than they need to be. I need it in this evening: this is for a _very_ important client.” 

Hermione felt panic in her eyes as she glanced at Ele. Ele shrugged. 

“Have fun,” she said simply. “Deeds are easier than Criminal Law.” 

Hermione cordoned herself back in her office, the stacks of Malfoy documents looming dangerously over her head. 

She looked down at the paper. It was all words she didn’t recognize. _Dunbert and Barryl Analysis (D &B)...QLRF emergent audit….run a QLA to conclude if the document is subject to governance according to subsection A of the 1652 Commission on Dialectical Quelling…._it might as well have all been written in ancient runes, except that ancient runes were something she could actually understand. This was...no, this was….

She sat back in her chair, blinking back tears. What _was_ this?

She unrolled the scroll to its full length, which left it draping off both ends of the desk, and flipped it around to its back, which was also covered in tiny words that only looked like English. “Glance over this and make any necessary edits where it might conflict with the client’s right to confidentiality,” Bartleby had said. “And make sure you disguise the ink this time. We don’t want to make it any easier for their solicitors than it has to be.” But he had never said what it _was._

She roughly dragged the top of the parchment back onto the desk, scanning for the title.  
Quitclaim Deed, it said. Brilliant––so it had something to do with property law, probably. Relating to the avoidance of disputes between relevant parties concerning the transfer of sentient services in the absence of a superseding will or pre-existing binding spell…

Hermione clutched her head in her hands, violently, her fingers tightening around clumps of curls. Two hours, she had two hours, and it was all-important that she fix this document to keep Bartleby’s mysterious client out of hot water. But how could she fix it when she didn’t even know what it was…

 _Calm down,_ she ordered herself, sitting up straight, putting her hands on her knees, and forcing herself to take deep breaths. She couldn’t do a good job of anything if she was hyperventilating. She forced air through her lungs until her heart was a little slower, then she cracked open one eye and the sight of the document sent her back into a tizzy again.

What if she got _fired?_ She wasn’t the right person for this job; she had no clue what it was. Bartleby was only just starting to warm up to her, but she was definitely going to get on his bad side, definitely going to wind up in trouble, because she’d already wasted so many minutes here and she was no closer to figuring out how to edit the document. Breathe, Hermione, breathe. Maybe it would be easier to look at from somewhere more comfortable.

Hermione crossed around the desk to the larger portion of her tiny, windowless, stuffy office and tumbled onto the carpet, taking the document with her. It wasn’t impossible. It was like all law practice. You get out what you put in; details, details, details; just pay attention, it’s a puzzle and you don’t _have_ to know what the words mean….

A few minutes later and she was rocking back and forth in the corner, scrubbing her eyes and cursing herself. She was crying––sobbing––which was stupid, because she didn’t have time; she only had a little less than four hours and it wouldn’t do to let anyone see her showing weakness.

She summoned a book off the shelf, and it came a bit too quickly and hit her knee. Great––now she was losing all elegance to her magic, _and_ her knee was stinging.

She flipped open the book to the index, but she was too hyped up now; even a task as simple as scanning through it was impossible when your heart was racing and you weren’t breathing right and the tears might get on the page and your goddamn kneecap was in pain. She tore through the pages, looking for every instance of the word “quitclaim,” but all of them were in the middle of paragraphs and none of them seemed to say what a quitclaim deed was or what it could possibly have to do with the infringement of a client’s right to confidentiality.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Not now,” she spat, but too late; the handle had already turned and it was opening.

“Sorry to bother you, I was just stopping by to return your book. I realized I’d forgotten to give it back to you, you left it in the Eighth Year Common Room––” Draco leaned in, holding her copy of _Travails in Transfiguration._

Hermione shook her hair closer around her face to try and hide the fact that she’d been crying and took a deep, ragged breath. “Thank you, Draco,” she said coldly, barely managing to keep her voice measured and not shaky.

His brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, her voice still icy, trying to keep it from trembling. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”

“I’ll just put this here––” he leaned across the room and set the book gently on the corner of her desk. His eyes fell on the long scroll spilling its way across the dingy carpet. “What are you working on?”

Hermione shook her head, and a tear slipped down her cheek despite her best efforts. She hoped he didn’t see it. “This...long... _thing,_ for Bartleby,” she said.

“A _thing?”_ He laughed gently. “What sort of a thing?”

She grimaced. “It’s a quitclaim deed, and I’ve got less than four hours to fix it up and get it back to him. So if you don’t mind––”

He started for the door, then turned back. “Do you need help? I’ve got some time, if you need help…” 

“Do you even know how to evaluate a quitclaim deed?”

Draco pursed his lips and looked around her office at the stacks of paper piled to the ceiling. “I don’t. But you can compare it to mine. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere; it appears you’ve got every bit of our family’s private records in this room.” 

He summoned something, and sure enough, a sealed scroll that she did remember poring through came in. She’d had no idea what it was, but she knew it didn’t have any spells or invisible ink or magical properties. Draco opened it and pulled out his wand. 

“Let me show you another spell,” he said. “I put it together from a few spells. It should help with these projects.” He tapped the parchment and whispered, _“Indago_ inspections.” 

The scroll opened and shot through his hand, coming to rest below his fingers on a particular word. “The quitclaim deed you’re looking at is about house-elf inheritance,” he said, picking up her document and pulling out a writing set. “It’s a transfer of ownership from a parent to a child. Quitclaim deeds are supposed to be as barebones as possible; you want incontrovertible proof of ownership, but no extraneous detail around why the transfer is taking place. You don’t want to give solicitors something to grab onto to question in the event of an inheritance dispute.” 

Hermione felt like she had a lot to say about the poor house-elves and whether they were having their rights properly protected, but she bit her tongue. She could feel exhaustion and hunger in every bone of her body, and she desperately needed the document finished for Bartleby. 

Draco whispered some kind of vanishing spell and got rid of a few sentences, then used her Quick Quotes Quill to write in some new language in writing identical to the old document. He explained the spells to her as he went, and she nodded along, hoping she would remember. 

He rolled up the scroll and handed it to her with a little smile. “There you go,” he said. “As perfect as my father’s terribly expensive former solicitor could get it.” 

She took it from him and sniffed, breathing more easily like a large weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, fingering the scroll. She looked up at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?” 

He looked nervous. “I figured you’d be getting off work about now, and I’m sure it’s been a really long and awful day thanks to my mother, so I was wondering if I could make it up to you with drinks.” 

Hermione stared at him. He held her gaze, but she couldn’t quite read his expression or his intentions, she could only remember what happened last time she became friends with him and what it had done to her most important relationship. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” she said. “I’d really love to, but I’m afraid Ron wouldn’t like it.” 

Draco blinked. “You’re still with him?” 

Hermione nodded. “We got back together.” 

“Oh.” He looked away. “That’s…that’s great. I’m really happy to hear that.” 

“Yeah.” Hermione looked down at her books. “I’m sorry, it’s just he’s already upset enough that I’m helping with your dad’s case. I think me and you spending more time together might just push him over the edge.” 

“Right,” said Draco. There was something a little off about his voice. She turned around to find him looking at her. “I mean...me and you?” He scoffed, but his eyes looked nervous. “I’m a...I was a Death Eater. You’re going to be Minister for Magic, probably. It doesn’t make sense.” 

Hermione felt her gaze softening. “No, no, I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly. “It’s not like...in the library. It’s between me and him. He just seems to have some issues with lawyers.” 

His easy grin was back for a flash. “Don’t we all,” he quipped, but then it was gone from his face just as quickly. He looked down at the ground awkwardly. “Well, I hope we’re paying you well, at least. You deserve something for dealing with them.” 

Hermione wrinkled her brow, not loving the mention of her salary, but her brain was a little too fried to think up a comeback in time. He was already standing up. 

“You’ve got your book, then.” He straightened up. “Er, I’ll be seeing you then, I guess. It sounds like you lot are going to Azkaban next week so Bartleby can make a fuss about my father’s conditions, and my mother’s already laying it on thick about me being there for moral support.” 

Hermione flinched. “Do you have to go?” 

He shrugged. “Might as well. Have a restful weekend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have today's update! Lots of themes and plot motion. There will be more chapters coming November 1st!


	26. Disconnection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the ending of this chapter with Harry's conversation on 11/27/19. This here is the new and updated version. If you care to, you can find the original version of the ending here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586105/chapters/51467935

Hermione made it home by eight in the evening, which meant she had been awake for nearly forty hours straight by her reckoning. The only food in the flat was some slimy remnants of the Chinese takeout Harry and Ginny had brought––she wolfed them down, not even bothering to warm up the food, then collapsed into bed and was wrapping her pillow around her ears trying to hide from her alarm before she knew what had happened. 

She got dressed and combed some Sleakeazy’s through her hair before leaving to Apparate to work. The boiler room down the hall was as good a place as any to use as an Apparition station; it had a door that locked. She would just have to hope no one was ever in there to make repairs. 

Hermione appeared in the Atrium, sleep clouding her vision. She bumped into a jubilant-looking Mr. Weasley in the lift, who started chirping something about Ron and dinner plans and Saturday. She said something happy-sounding back, then rubbed her eyes. Exhaustion was weighing on her so heavily she didn’t feel quite an inhabitant of her own body. 

“You can do this,” she told herself firmly, stepping out of the lift on her floor. Then she added, as an afterthought, “You’re not real. You’re not _actually_ here. The real you is still asleep in your bed, and this day isn’t actually happening.” It was a strange way to go, but maybe leaning into dissociation could help. It was Friday, at least––she had started work on a Tuesday––so all she had to do was make it through the next few hours and her bed could become her reality for the entire weekend. 

It certainly made the day go faster––Bartleby had some more document review lined up for her, but for a different client this time. Overnight he’d had all the Malfoy files swapped out for Parkinson ones, and there were somehow even more of these. Hermione tried to be interested in what the files held, but checking them for particular phrases and hidden spells was such a mindless task that it was easier to just tell herself over and over that she wasn’t here, she was actually curled up in bed, and her hands weren’t touching rough parchment, they were wrapped in her thick downy comforter…. 

Then she had to take down the Parkinson deposition, which required her to be a little more present. Pansy’s father came, and Pansy too, leaning on the arm of one of the handsome Aurors Hermione had seen the other day in Diagon Alley walking with Ron. Her hair was in a shiny black bob and she seemed taller than Hermione had remembered. She wore a bright red lip, which was new, and never let go of the Auror, who Hermione initially thought was there as a guard but who turned out to be her new boyfriend. 

The Parkinson case turned out to have nothing to do with the war or the family’s Death Eater pasts. Mr. Parkinson just wanted to sell the family home and move to France, which Pansy apparently was fine with, but as the eldest child he needed her signature on all the paperwork. The rest of the afternoon consisted of inviting Pansy into the lobby and making sure her loopy scrawl appeared on every necessary dotted line. 

This would have been less annoying if the Auror with her didn’t keep tickling Pansy’s waist and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Pansy said nothing to Hermione beyond a curt hello, until they were on the final sheet of paper, which had a sketch of the family home––hardly the dark fortress Hermione had expected, but rather a lovely country cottage covered in roses. 

“You don’t want to keep this?” She blurted out, staring at the picture. It looked so calm and peaceful. An invisible breeze was swaying the flowers in the illustrated garden, and there was even an animated bunny rabbit that kept hopping out of the bushes. 

Pansy laughed––a pealing laugh very different from the cackling snort Hermione remembered––and laid her left hand on the parchment, shaking back her sleeve to reveal the biggest, sparkliest diamond ring Hermione had ever seen. “No, no. Aster’s got the most _extravagant_ little flat in Chelsea.” 

The fiancé––Aster, apparently––pulled her close then and began French kissing her directly in front of Hermione’s desk, which was just the cherry on top of a very long Friday. 

She waited until they were finished, which was at least a minute of awkwardly fiddling with the feathers of her quill, then got the final signature and breathed at last. Her pocket watch was showing five in the evening. She tapped open her time sheet and crossed off the end of the Parkinson work, then went to gather her things and head home. 

She exited her office a couple of minutes later, satchel slung around her shoulder, and ducked into Ele’s office to wave goodbye. 

Ele grinned at her, looking sleepy herself. “Good job for your first week. Get some rest.” 

“Thanks, I will,” said Hermione, heading back out of her office. “I’ll see you Monday!” 

“GRANGER!” Bartleby’s voice bellowed from elsewhere in the office. 

Hermione froze in her tracks, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath to steady herself. 

“Oh, there you are!” Bartleby came around the corner then and dumped a heavy leather satchel on the lobby desk. “That reminds me, I’m working on a divorce. I need you to go through these property statements and gather some proof points for why the alimony division is unfair.” 

“I’m not really familiar with—“ Hermione started, but Bartleby was on a rant now. 

“She’s the one who ran off and left _me._ There’s no kids, and why she can’t just get rid of the goddamned ornamental pigmy Hippogriffs is beyond me. She should be the one paying alimony, and I’m gonna prove that to the judge come eight am Monday.” He thudded his finger down on the satchel and looked at her commandingly. “Proof points!” 

Hermione bit her lip, quaking under his glare. “Yes, sir,” she said, her relieved mood gone as quickly as it had come. She picked up the satchel, which was so full of paperwork it dropped like a rock and whacked her in the thigh. 

* * *

Her flat looked bereft and empty when she got back home. She couldn’t face this new divorce assignment just yet, so she left it there and walked down to a Muggle corner shop, where she picked up a sad-looking vegetable salad stuffed in a little plastic container. She ate it with a plastic fork alone at her kitchen table, then decided to get Bartleby’s divorce assignment over with as quickly as possible. 

She dumped out the satchel on the floor, and so much paperwork spilled out she felt like she might cry. There was enough here to eat up her entire weekend. But there was nothing for it; it was an order from her boss and she had to do it; at least she’d be putting in more extra hours toward that bonus…. 

Harry found her like that a couple of hours later when he knocked on the door. He already had his traveling cloak on and was an hour away from meeting Ginny to take an international Portkey to France for her month-long European season. 

She greeted him with a big, tight hug. He held her for a long minute. 

“Hey,” he said gently. “I spoke with Ron. He seemed pretty upset about your new job.” 

“Yeah.” Hermione turned away, hoping the burning red brims of her eyes weren’t too obvious. 

“You’re on the Malfoy case?” 

“Ron told you?” 

Harry stooped down to join her on the floor. “Yeah. That’s...he’s not supposed to tell me that, is he?” 

Hermione shook her head. “No. He’s not supposed to know, either. He went through my mail.” 

“What?” Harry’s mouth fell open in shock. 

“Yeah. I’d got a bit of correspondence relating to it, and he decided he’s have a look while I was in the loo.” 

Harry sucked in his breath. “That’s terrible.” 

“Oh, he didn’t tell you that part of the story?” 

“No, he limited it to a rant about Lucius Malfoy.” 

“Right.” Hermione picked at the carpet. “I feel torn about the case, too, honestly. I mean, I get it, you know? After what the man did to Ginny...the way he treated Dobby...not to mention letting Voldemort camp out in his house…” 

“I can imagine,” said Harry. 

Hermione sighed heavily. “I mean, I attacked Draco just a few months ago because I was still really upset he didn’t save me from Bellatrix. His father didn’t save me, either.” 

Harry paused a moment before answering. “Well, attacking his father isn’t really going to help anything, either.” 

Hermione almost laughed. “I know. I don’t want to be that junior paralegal who went mad and half-murdered her client in the office.” 

“No, you don’t,” said Harry. 

Hermione sighed and ran her fingers over the bumps in the carpets, tracing the lines between them like they were tiny roads. “I don’t think his defense is great, honestly,” she said. “The prosecution has loads more ammunition. Even if he wins, he’s already been disgraced. McGonagall would never let him back on the Hogwarts board. But I dunno, Harry. If he loses, and loses badly enough, the Dementors will take his soul. I dunno how I feel about that.” 

“Yeah.” Harry looked down at the carpet, too. He took his time responding. “The Auror Department has been really pushing the Kiss lately,” he said finally. “It didn’t start out that way. Right after the Battle, it looked like we weren’t going to use Dementors at all, remember? Dumbledore had been pushing to end their use for years.” 

“Right,” said Hermione. 

“But, it’s just been overwhelming in terms of the caseload,” said Harry. “There’s loads of Death Eaters out there who are still uncaptured, and loads of Death Eater supporters who need an eye kept on them. Plus, there’s dismantling the oppressive legal structures Voldemort left behind, finding and punishing the Ministry officials responsible, financial audits on wealth we suspect was stolen during the war...the Wizengamot is overtaxed, and there are a lot of voices in the Auror Department saying the Second Wizarding War would never have happened if we’d just...rid the world of Death Eaters after the First Wizarding War. By taking their souls. Or killing them.” 

“But they would have done that to Sirius, too,” Hermione interjected, alarmed. 

“Exactly.” Harry nodded. “And I’m quite sure there are innocent people in the mix this time around, as well. Not Lucius Malfoy,” he clarified. 

“Oh, no.” 

“But others.” 

“Right.” 

Harry was silent, fiddling with the hem of his sock. “I think it’s worth opposing on principle,” he said. “The Kiss, I mean. We’re going to regret it as a society in a couple of years if we take everyone’s souls. It will only serve to radicalize their supporters and family members––people who might never take action if they thought the punishment was just. You don’t want those kinds of people to think the world is against them.” 

“Yeah,” said Hermione. 

“I read something about that recently. Something like never push a man into a corner unless you’re ready for him to fight back with all he’s got. People react badly and do terrible things sometimes when they’re frightened or hurting.” 

“You’ve been reading?” Hermione smiled.

“Yeah, a couple of books.” Harry grinned. “Not just broom care manuals.” 

“And no one told you to or anything?” 

“Nope, just me.” 

“You must be growing up.” She looked back down at the carpet. 

Silence fell between them again and reigned for a few moments longer. 

Harry checked his watch. 

“I’d better be going,” he said, getting to his feet. “Ginny’ll be wondering where I am. We can’t miss this Portkey; it took a week to get all the forms signed.” 

Hermione rose with him. “I’ll miss you,” she said. She really would. It felt a bit like the bottom of her world was dropping away, having them both leave for so long. 

“I’ll miss you, too.” 

Hermione took shelter in his arms as he wrapped them around her again. 

“I’m only an owl away,” said Harry. “You let me know if you’re upset, or if something’s wrong with Bartleby, or if you need me to come knock some sense into Ron for you. I’ll be right there as soon as you need me.” 

“Thank you,” she breathed. 

Then Harry left and she subsumed herself in Bartleby’s wife’s financial statements until she couldn’t take it anymore and collapsed into bed.


	27. Uncoupling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo! If you're reading this and you've read this story up to this update before, please note that I rewrote all of chapter 24 - "Civil Disagreements" - and Ron now does a couple of things in it that he didn't do before. And Hermione doesn't do something that she did do before. It changes things. 
> 
> I also replaced the ending to chapter 26, "Disconnection," but it isn't as big of a change, it just clarifies it a bit. 
> 
> OG chapters are here for the record, because I'm an anxious mess irl who doesn't want to make anyone mad by changing stuff and having people go "wait that isn't right" and then go back to look but then I've changed everything and it's really confusing. I don't want that to happen. So it's all saved here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586105/chapters/51467587#workskin

Hermione woke up from a fitful sleep around noon on Saturday, then applied herself straightaway to compiling proof points for the alimony division. The assignment wasn’t nearly as bad as it had looked last night; she managed to get about three-quarters of the way through before Ron showed up at the door to ask her why she wasn’t at his parents’ yet for dinner. 

The answer was that she had quite forgotten––this must have been what she’d agreed to when she’d run into Mr. Weasley in the lift––but Ron seemed to be in a good mood and it was a welcome interruption, so she made him wait while she pulled on dress robes. 

He was pacing around in her flat when she came out, looking at the walls and frowning. “You haven’t got a fireplace?” 

Hermione shook her head. “Loads of Muggle places haven’t got them.” 

Ron’s face took on a disgusted expression. “Then how on earth are you supposed to get hooked up to the Floo Network?” 

“I guess I’ll have to install a fireplace.” Hermione brushed against his arm to try and calm him. “C’mon, we can Apparate out of the boiler room.” 

Ron groaned. “Let’s just Apparate to my flat, I told Mum we’d be coming by Floo and I want her to think you’re normal….” 

“Normal?” Hermione huffed, flicking off the lights and crossing her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

They argued all through Apparating to Ron’s flat, taking a brief respite to say hello to Seamus, who was one of Ron’s roommates. He was eating yogurt in his pajamas with a butterknife. Ron threw some Floo Powder into his fireplace, which was so small and dingy the only way to go anywhere with it was to get down on the floor and crawl in headfirst, so Hermione wound up somersaulting into the Floo vortex and barely managed to get feet-first before she appeared in the Burrow. 

She stepped out of the fireplace into the living room of the Burrow and immediately felt better. Goodness, but she had missed this place, with its cozy mismatched furniture and quirky decor and friendly inhabitants. 

“Hermione, dear!” Mrs. Weasley let go of Ron and bustled over to Hermione for a tight hug. Hermione squeezed her back; it felt so good to be held. 

“Mrs. Weasley! Thank you so much for having us over for dinner; I’m sorry we couldn’t make it sooner. It was such a busy first week of work at the Ministry, and I had my new flat to sort out—”

“Don’t say a word, dear.” Mrs. Weasley put a finger to her lips. “You’re welcome here anytime.” She released Hermione and clapped her hands together. “Dinner?” 

Hermione nodded enthusiastically. Ron took her hand in his and started to lead her toward the kitchen, but a loud crash sounded from somewhere upstairs. Mrs. Weasley looked anxiously in the direction of the roof. 

“Arthur, won’t you open that new banana wine? I’ll just be a moment—”

Mr. Weasley frowned. “Are you sure? I’ll just go take a look—”

But Mrs. Weasley shook her head and got to the stairs first, cutting him off. Mr. Weasley turned back around and smiled at his guests. 

“Right, I’ll get the wine going. Ron, Hermione?” 

“Yes, please,” said Hermione, and he fixed her a glass of shimmering banana wine. She took a sip: it was sweet, but rich with bitter notes as well. 

“Ron tells me you’re living in a completely Muggle area!” Mr. Weasley said, his eyes shining. “In a disguised Muggle flat!” 

Hermione chuckled. “Yes, but it’s all above-board,” she said, explaining quickly about how she hadn’t used any _Confundus_ charms and none of her magical renovations were visible from the outside, although she knew he didn’t really care about the regulations and would never turn her in. 

“Fascinating,” said Mr. Weasley, hanging on her words like he really meant it. “So have you been eating Muggle food, too?” 

“Yes; there’s a lovely little shop in the corner and I’ve been mostly getting their little pasta salads, you know, the ones that come in the plastic packaging?” 

Mr. Weasley about gasped. “You mean Muggle food doesn’t have to be cooked?” 

“No, it’s often sold pre-made––” 

There was another loud crash from upstairs, like a large variety of assorted objects had all tumbled over at once. 

Ron frowned, looking up at the ceiling. “Is that coming from the twins’ room?” 

Mr. Weasley looked sharply up at the ceiling as well. “I dunno.” He clapped Ron on the back. “I’ll be back; I’m going to go check on your mother.” He hurried up the stairs, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the kitchen. 

Ron raised his eyebrows, slurping his wine from the glass. “Sounds like Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes has gotten a bit out of hand.” 

Hermione set her wine down and slid onto the bench along the rough-hewn dining table. “They’ve still got inventory stored up there?” 

“Well, George has.” 

“Right. Sorry.” Hermione blinked something out of her eye. 

Ron slid onto the bench next to her. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said huskily, reaching up to smooth her hair out of her face. 

“Thanks,” said Hermione, flinching away. 

Ron moved as if to kiss her, but she turned aside. 

“I’m still mad you told the Auror Department to seize the medicine bottles,” she said. “You can’t be milking my school stories for anonymous tips.” 

“Oh, c’mon, we’re going to be the best investigative couple there ever was. We’ll put _all_ of them away.” He leaned forward and tried to kiss her again. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came back in the kitchen then; Ron moved away from her so quickly he bumped into the corner of the table with his side and yelped in pain. 

“Is everything all right?” Hermione sat up straight, addressing herself to his parents. 

“Yes, just a bit of a lingering charm up in the twins’ room,” said Mr. Weasley. He and Mrs. Weasley sat down across the table. 

“That’ll be easy enough to take care of then, at least easier than the Squib rubbish collector case Rosemary bungled last week while you were away,” said Ron. Rosemary worked in Mr. Weasley’s Department and had overseen his duties while he was on a brief business trip to Belgium. 

“Squib rubbish collector? Rosemary didn’t tell me about that one,” said Mr. Weasley, shaking out his napkin and laying it across his lap. He waved the lids off all the hot dishes and gestured for them to start serving themselves. 

“Yeah, I just heard about it from Seamus at lunch today,” said Ron, helping himself to an enormous serving of mashed potatoes. “Apparently there’s some Squib in Leicester who’s been complaining to his sister about how much work rubbish collecting is, and she charmed his lorry to make it a magnet for all the rubbish in the area. ‘Course, that was a bit of a disaster, as bits of rubbish started flying out of people’s hands before they were finished with them. It was in the papers, even, at least until Rosemary went in with a team of Obliviators and replaced the story with one about an epidemic of toenail fungus.” 

“Really? That sounds like Rosemary handled it well,” said Mr. Weasley, looking up from his plate. 

Ron shook his head and gulped down a forkful of potatoes. “She was the sister.” 

Mr. Weasley raised his eyebrows and sipped his wine. “Ah. I’ll need to have a talk with her.” 

Silence fell except for the awful scraping of spoons in bowls. Hermione glanced around, trying to think of something to say. 

“You know, I find it so interesting how both Muggles and Wizards have this fascination with labor-saving devices, and yet it’s the wizarding solutions that more often go wrong,” she started. 

“They do?” Ron said through a mouthful of stew, making a face. 

She turned from him, disgusted at the unchewed food in his mouth, and compulsively patted her own lips with a napkin. “Well, I mean of course there are the large-scale Muggle disasters like Chernobyl. But I think the more endemic issue is that Muggle technology typically works based on the amount of energy that you expend in operating the device. The energy needs to be transformed by the device, not created, but most spells bypass the input and make the device start producing its own energy. I’m fairly certain it’s the creation of magical energy that makes the device go haywire.” 

“Is it now?” Mr. Weasley looked interested. 

“Well, it’s not _my_ idea, exactly,” said Hermione. “Its Babbity Bibshot’s, you know, the witch who lost her permit in Diagon Alley for selling Muggle dishwashers?” 

“Oh, yes, I’ve dealt with Bibshot before. Absolute nut of a woman.” The way Mr. Weasley’s eyes darted made her feel quite sure he had a working Muggle dishwasher from Babbity stashed somewhere in his garage. 

“Well, she was telling me some of her theories about magic the other day. She’s a bit off her rocker, of course, but I really think she’s ahead of her time,” said Hermione earnestly. An idea occurred to her and she sat up a little straighter. “I’m thinking of writing a paper on it to submit to _Trials in Transfiguration.”_

“Another paper?” Ron looked up, aghast. “Haven’t you had enough of school yet, Hermione?” 

Hermione stuck her nose up gracefully. “For your information, _Ronald,_ the original purpose of the term paper was to disseminate magical discoveries, _not_ to torture students.” 

“Has anything interesting happened at work?” Mrs. Weasley cut in.

“She’s been assigned to the Malfoy case,” Ron answered for her. “Mad, isn’t it?” 

Hermione dropped her spoon and it hit the edge of the plate with a clatter. _“Ron!”_ She hissed. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, bobbing his head emphatically at the surprised expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s faces and continuing on like he hadn’t heard her. “I was starting to think, you know, how is this going to work out? Me, an Auror, and her hobnobbing with the Death Eaters and all. Because she’s working for the defense. She’s defending Lucius Malfoy.” 

Hermione’s face blushed crimson and she looked down at her lap. 

“But I’m talking her into tanking the case from the inside,” said Ron, stuffing his mouth with a large serving of stew and then talking through it. “It’ll be the Kiss for him, if she’s got anything to do with it.” 

“That’s very interesting,” said Mr. Weasley diplomatically through his surprise. “I’m surprised you’re allowed to talk about it.” 

“Yeah, I really don’t think I should be,” said Hermione, looking daggers at Ron. _“You_ shouldn’t be telling people, either.” 

Ron laughed through a mouthful of stew. “Seamus hardly counts as people. And Mum and Dad are trustworthy, aren’t you?” 

Her jaw dropped open. “You told _Seamus?”_

Ron nodded like it was no big deal. “He’s my roommate. I trust him. At most he’ll tell Dean.” 

Hermione stabbed her elbows into the table and buried her hands in her hair. “Dean knows, too?” There was an awful ominous sinking feeling in her stomach now. 

“What? Everyone’s going to find out at the trial. You said so yourself.” Ron was still shoveling down mashed potatoes like this was a normal conversation. 

“The trial could be months away. There’s not even a firm date set for it.” Hermione felt like her insides were falling into an abyss. “You cannot be telling people about this, you’ll ruin my whole career.” 

Ron shrugged. “Well, if it’s that big a deal to you, I’ll stop talking about it.” 

Hermione shook her head slowly. She picked up her spoon again. The stew was tasteless now. 

Ron was still talking. “I do think you need my guidance when going over your client list, though.” 

Hermione dropped the spoon into the bowl in shock. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Well, obviously you don’t have the best judgement. And I mean, we’ve had this discussion before. You’re one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met, but you’re brilliant when it comes to books. You need me because I can read people. You need to ask me so I can tell you when your clients are just using you.” 

Hermione pushed her bowl away, her whole body tingling and alert. Across the table Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s expressions revealed they’d seen a faux pas, too. 

Her eyes were locked on him but he wasn’t taking the hint. He shrugged and slurped his stew. “So as your partner, I think it’s best if you run these things by you first, so I can make sure you’re doing the right thing. Since you won’t join the Auror Department.” 

_“What?”_ She demanded, her voice dangerous. 

Ron looked at her, and he seemed a little nervous all of a sudden but he kept talking anyway. “You said it yourself, remember? You’re brilliant, but you said that was why you need me. Because I’m brilliant when it comes to people, like how I knew Cormac MacLaggen was bad news. You said that’s what makes me a good partner for you.” 

The room seemed to be closing in and darkening and narrowing. Her voice came as a mad whisper. _“What if I only said that to make you feel better about yourself?”_

The final understanding that came into Ron’s eyes then was terrible to behold. He laid down his spoon gently, staring at the table. 

“Okay,” was all he said. 

Hermione pushed herself away from the table and stood. “Thank you very much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. It was delicious.” 

Mr. Weasley gestured towards a large bowl. “You won’t stay for pudding?” He asked, halfheartedly. 

“No, thank you.”

She went over to the fireplace and tossed in some Floo powder and, not knowing where else to go, yelled out Ron’s address. The Burrow was gone in a flash of green. 

The fire consumed her and she tumbled out of Ron’s tiny fireplace, panicky. It was so small she barely got out before the flames turned from green to orange and started licking at her clothing. 

She straightened up, brushing ash off her dress robes, and looked up to see Seamus and Dean staring at her, open-mouthed. They were sitting rather close together on the couch and Dean’s shirt was unbuttoned. 

“Hermione?” Dean said, seeming to choke on his words. 

Hermione glared at them a second, then stood up to her full height, squaring her shoulders and brushing the ash off her dress robes. “I’m going to break up with Ron.” She didn’t know where the words came from, hadn’t thought them in the Floo, but speaking them made her feel powerful. 

Seamus looked confused. “Okay.” 

“D’you have a problem with that?” There were stubborn spots of ash all down her sleeve. It was like they were getting ground into the fabric. She pulled out her wand and ran a cleansing spell over her clothing, sucking out the ash. 

“Yeah, he’s going to be a drunk mess for like a week.” Seamus shook his head. “Do what you want. Could we have the room, please?” 

“Right. Of course.” Hermione noted Dean’s state of half-undress. He’d gotten glasses and put on some muscle. “You’re looking good, Dean. Have you been working out?” 

Seamus lobbed a pillow at her and she made for the door, slamming it behind her. 

Her breath came out all shaky as soon as she was in the hallway. So she was breaking up with Ron. She was going to break up with him. She, Hermione, was going to dump Ron. 

Were Dean and Seamus seeing each other? 

She started walking. She remembered Gordon Williamson’s warning about making Ron suffer if he remembered being forced to murder his Auror colleagues. But that involved _reminding_ him of their breakup; breaking up with him for new reasons should be okay. 

She Apparated to the boiler room of her apartment and unlocked the door to get out. She’d always sort of felt like things could work out with Ron at some point. She’d come around to dating him, hadn’t she? But they just fought, all the time, and right now it just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. And he’d still want to sleep with her at some point, and right now she barely wanted to look at him, so it wasn’t working out on that level either. 

She decided to sleep on it, at least. 

* * *

Sleep didn’t come. Luckily, she had plenty of Bartleby’s paperwork to go through. 

She finished it by the time the sun was coming up and laid down for a couple of hours of dreamless rest. Then she got herself a cup of Muggle tea at the corner shop and revisited the subject of Ron. 

She still wanted to break up with him. She just felt through with him. It might be a horrible mistake, something she’d regret; but weren’t they on-again, off-again at this point anyway? 

She sipped her tea, but it felt like she had to choke it down. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing. She felt like she ought to get a second opinion on the relationship, ought to call up Harry or someone, but also, she...didn’t want anyone to change her mind. 

She surreptitiously evaporated the rest of the tea so it wouldn’t spill out on any rubbish workers and tossed the empty cup in a bin outside. 

There was nothing for it. She didn’t even make it back to her building. It was now or never. 

She slipped behind a dumpster and Apparated to the hallway outside Ron’s flat. 

Her stomach tightened and her nerve almost fled. She felt an overwhelming urge to run: down the hall, in the street, it didn’t matter where––

She lifted her fist like it was a dead weight and knocked on the door. 

Footsteps creaked across the sagging floor inside and Ron opened it. He had on his Auror robes and a Chudley Cannons hat. 

“Hermione!” He beckoned her to come in, sounding both pleased and caught off guard to see her. “Seamus is still asleep, but you can come in.” There was some nervousness in the way his eyes were moving. 

She shook her head and stayed standing where she was, just outside the threshold. “Ron, we need to talk.” 

“Of course.” He nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to the Chudley Cannons game; I’m sure you can scalp a ticket outside if you want––” 

“No, that’s not it,” she said, her voice sounding a little clearer and firmer. She pushed past him into the living room, turning just south of the bloodstain on the carpet to face him. 

Ron shut the door behind her, signs of anxiety starting to show on his face. 

She took a deep breath––there was that need to start running, again. Her chest felt constricted. She forced the words out anyway. “Ron, this isn’t working out.” 

“What’s not?” He inspected her expression, then his face fell. “I know. I’m really sorry about the Auror box rules. I _did_ ask, you know; I asked Aster and he said we can’t bring guests––” 

“Ron, I don’t care about Quidditch!” She said, pained. “I never have, okay? I’m talking about _us.”_

Ron looked hurt. “You don’t care about Quidditch?” 

She took a seat on one of the folding lawn chairs that, along with a card table, served him and Seamus as a dining room set, then stood back up. She felt stronger standing. 

“Ron…” 

“Yes?” His voice sounded very small all of a sudden. 

“Ron, I think we’re very different people.” She fiddled with the sleeve of her robes. 

“Yes!” Said Ron, coming over and taking her hands. “That’s what makes us so great. You’re smart and I’m outgoing, we’re like peanut butter and jelly, or...or ice cream and summer, or…” 

Hermione stepped back, sliding her hands out of his grasp. “Lately, you keep trying to tell me what to do. Make me into what you want. And I think…” her breath was shallow in her throat, “that if you want to be dating an Auror...you need to go... _date_ one. Because I will never be this person you seem to want me to turn into. I’m not, and I never will be.” 

His face crumpled into a question mark. “Is this about what I said last night?” 

She nodded, but tried to preface it. “Sort of. But it’s bigger than––” 

Ron didn’t let her finish. “Because I was thinking about it, and even if you only said that to make me...feel...better about myself, I still think it’s true. I _am_ good at reading people. And I am better than you at reading people.” He laughed in kind of a forced snort. “I mean, you really don’t get it with the Malfoy case, do you? They’re _using_ you, Hermione. You make him look more innocent because of who you are and the fact that you’ve chosen to work for him.” 

Hermione crossed her arms. “See, this is part of it.” 

Ron frowned at her. “What is?” 

She gestured toward him. “This. Fighting. We’re always fighting. You know, I don’t think we’ve ever once had a date where we haven’t fought, the whole time we’ve been together?” 

Ron looked like he was wracking his brains. “What about when I first kissed you?” 

“We’d been fighting over how to safely break off the Basilisk fangs and then we fought some more about where to go next.” 

“What about that first week last summer at the Burrow, and everyone left but us, and we kissed for hours and you loved it and we had the best time?” 

Her grasp on her folded arms shook a little. “Look, Ron, I’m not saying it’s never been good. Some of it has worked, at times. But overall...I just don’t think there’s enough here for a good relationship. I don’t see this going anywhere.” 

Ron’s face broke into an expression of horror. “You don’t see it going places?” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice coming out small but firm. “I’m done. I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.” 

He looked at her and his eyes got wide. “You’re...breaking up with me?” 

She nodded. “Yeah.” 

“You can’t break up with me!” He ran his hands through his hair. “I mean, I know I haven’t been the most devoted...I just thought we were comfortable... _solid,_ y’know?” 

Hermione crossed her arms, almost amused. “You thought we were done having to work on our relationship?” 

Ron threw out his hands. “Exactly! Thank you! See, I thought we were good…” 

Hermione shook her head and stepped toward the door to go. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t. We weren’t. It was always a bit shaky.” 

“No, it wasn’t!” There was a new note to Ron’s voice now, one she had never heard before. She turned to look, and he was biting his lip; he seemed almost on the verge of tears. “It wasn’t,” he repeated, desperately. “It was good, it was really really good, and I loved you, and I _still_ love you...I thought you loved me, too.” 

“I do,” she whispered, seized with sympathy. She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a light kiss; chaste and simple. “But we’ve run our course. I’ll always love you. But not like this.” 

She went to the door then, and opened it, and turned back one last time. 

Ron was looking after her with the most mournful expression––stunned and hurt all in one. His Chudley Cannons bludger hat was still crammed stupidly on his head. “I can change,” he called after her, his voice wavering. “I thought you wanted to be with an Auror. I can be different––” 

She shook her head and whispered goodbye, then shut the door. 

She Apparated at once. She had to go somewhere he wouldn’t follow, because he was going to go to her flat, and then he was going to go to Grimmauld Place, and if he showed up and begged her and looked earnest enough she was going to take him back, but it had been too long, she couldn’t keep on like this….

So she went to her old neighborhood again, outside the house she had grown up. She tapped herself over the head with a Disillusionment charm just in case, and as the cold slimy chills of the spell ran down her spine she felt a couple of tears coming. 

She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? It had all seemed so clear after she’d left the Burrow...but now how was she going to tell Ginny, what would she say to Harry; would she ever be able to speak to Ron again? Had she acted too fast? She cast a Muffliato charm on herself as well. 

There was a full moon and it glinted off the second-story window of her childhood bedroom. A light breeze played through the bushes in the front garden. A new family lived there now; a different sedan was parked out front, and they’d hung little decorative glass panels in the windows. She just had to stay here for a couple of hours, because Ron wouldn’t try for too long, and then she could Apparate back to her flat and catch a couple hours of sleep before work in the morning. 

So she sat down in the grass and she let the tears fall, and she mourned the memories Ron had lost and the kisses they had shared. 

It was over and the moon grew dim and it started to rain.


	28. The Aftermath

The rain continued into the morning, blanketing the world in a pallid bleakness that she could see from her windows as she went into the kitchen to make herself some tea. The clouds drained the colors from the landscape, sucking the life from it like giant dementors. 

She wasn’t so tired anymore. The whole last week, she had kept thinking she would collapse if she so much as felt the corner of her blanket, but now she was awake and she just didn’t feel like that anymore. 

What she did feel was fragile. Hollow. She ate some toast to fill herself up but it just crumbled in her mouth like bits of charcoal. 

She got to the Ministry early to make sure Bartleby had his paperwork and caught up with him as he was entering the office. 

“Did you finish those proof points?” He demanded, side-eyeing her as he unlocked the door to the office. 

She nodded at the leather case tucked under her arm. “They’re right here.” 

He nodded in approval. “Love is a scam, Granger. A filthy scam that’ll stab you in the back and take half your business.” 

She almost smiled. “Yes, sir.” 

“Now you’d better have arranged it so I can get those goddamn pigmy Hippogriffs out of my garden.” 

“It’s all taken care of, sir. You’ll find you have a strong argument.” 

They had reached his office. Bartleby plonked down his leather briefcase on the desk next to the folder of proof points she had carefully compiled and flipped open the top half of his globe for his morning brandy. 

“Never wanted the little buggers in the first place. They do terrible things to the shrubbery.” 

“You won’t have them, sir.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Quarter past seven.” 

Bartleby settled in to skim the lines she had drawn up for him before his alimony hearing. Hermione stood awkwardly by his desk. She was afraid that if she went back to her office by herself and she didn’t have anything to do that she might feel horribly sad. Bartleby looked up after a moment. 

“What are you still doing here?” He barked. 

“I was wondering if you needed any more help, sir.” 

Bartleby turned over one of the sheets of parchment. “Go badger the Auror office. They gave back Malfoy’s medicine but they’re still trying to make us go to Azkaban tomorrow. It’s bloody infuriating; I’ve got ten other clients. I haven’t got the time to take a magic carpet back and forth to bloody Wizard prison.” 

Her heart caught in her throat. She might run into Ron. “I’ll do my best, sir.” 

“They won’t listen to you. But go give it a try anyway.” Bartleby chugged the last of his brandy and poured himself another glass. 

Hermione recognized she was dismissed and stepped quickly out of the office and started heading to the Auror Department. She didn’t think Ron had ever been there before nine; with any luck she could be in and done before he even showed up. 

She walked into the vast maze of cubicles, which was deserted and half dark at this time of morning. She looked sadly at Harry’s desk as she passed it. Ron would probably have told Harry by now, gone looking for comfort and validation straightaway. 

There was a light on in Gordon Williamson’s office, but it turned out it wasn’t him but his assistant. 

“Excuse me, who do I talk to about mandatory legal trips to Azkaban?” 

The assistant, a woman with cropped hair wearing a button down and a bow tie, informed her this would be handled through the Azkaban satellite office on the Department of Mysteries floor. 

Hermione thanked her and went back to the law office. Bartleby was out now, having left for his alimony hearing. 

She marched back into Bartleby’s office, which was crammed with legal texts, and used the searching spell Draco had taught her to select all the ones which had pieces on prisoners’ rights. It was an impressive selection. 

She piled the books high and levitated them and took the lift down to the very bottom floor. 

She flinched as she passed the entrance to the Department of Mysteries on her way to the stone staircase at the other end of the hall. There were no memories of that place she would like to revisit. The staircase spiraled down to the Department of Justice, where there was a bit more activity. There seemed to be a trial on break; a group of people were milling outside one of the courtrooms. 

Hermione found the tiny room at the end where the Azkaban satellite office was located. 

“You can’t make Bartleby conduct his legal business in Azkaban.” She dropped the heavy stack of legal tomes on his desk; they made a satisfying crashing noise and shook the papers on the desk as they landed. “Here’s a hundred pounds of why not.” 

The man looked up at her. “Who on earth are you?” 

She wiped her hair from her brow. “Hermione Granger. I’m Bartimeus Bartleby’s legal assistant. And you can’t––” 

“Hermione Granger?” 

“Yes. Now according to the 1993––” 

The man folded his arms. “It’s perfectly proper to conduct legal consultations in Azkaban. It’s done all the time. Bartleby’s done it himself before.” 

“Only by necessity, I’m sure. Now––” 

“Lazy old bastard.” The man looked her up and down. “What, and now he’s sending some flunky to do his dirty work for him? Can’t be bothered to come down here himself?” 

“Mr. Bartleby has a number of other clients and can’t spare the travel time when the ridiculous ban on Apparition can’t be lifted for even––” 

“Ridiculous? Pah!” The man laughed in her face. “You tell me what’s ridiculous when you’ve got the safety of the Wizarding World riding on the efficacy of _your_ security protocols.” 

Hermione couldn’t resist. “D’you know who I am?” She barked. “The safety of the Wizarding World _did_ rest on my shoulders, for months, on the strength of my warding spells, and d’you know what? _Speed_ was more important than _spells!_ If I’d stayed in one place too long, I would’ve _died!”_

The man’s hands curled into fists on his desk. “Yes, I _do_ know who you are, and I _did_ read your file, and that’s how I know that your wards failed and you _got caught!”_

Hermione’s own hands were clenched too, now. Her brain was a whir and she opened her mouth without really have a comeback ready, but the man had already cut her off. 

“Get out of my office and don’t you dare come back until you know what you’re talking about.” He glared at her. “Bartleby’s going to Azkaban tomorrow, and by the sound of it, you are too.” 

Hermione gathered up the books in her arms, glowering at him, and stomped down the Department of Justice hallway. The books were heavier than she remembered them being on the way down, and her arms were straining by the time she got to the stairwell. She paused to readjust her grip and peer around the side of the tomes, then marched up. 

She was halfway down the next hall when she spied the lift door closing. Her arms were burning from the effort of lifting the books and she did not want to wait for it any longer than she had to–– 

“Wait!” She called, then took off down the hall at as close to a run as the bulky books would allow her. 

Someone held the lift open just long enough for her to dart in, and she stumbled to the back, out of breath. She turned to face the front of the lift, and in doing so spied her fellow passenger––Mrs. Weasley. 

Emotions hit her like a ton of bricks. Mrs. Weasley must _hate_ her now; Ron had seemed upset and she was so fiercely loyal to the point of fault. Hermione gave her a weak smile and shuffled back into the corner. 

_Ding._ “Level Seven. Department of Magical Games and Sports,” said the lift. 

Mrs. Weasley kept peering at her and starting to say something, then stopping. Finally, she spoke. “Is that a case you’re working on?” 

“What?” Hermione flinched, then looked at the books. “Oh––yes.” She felt exhausted, and sweaty, and there was a batch of hair across her vision. She moved instinctively to brush it away, but lost her grip on all the books and they came crashing to the ground in a messy pile, sending sharp pains up her legs as they landed on her toes. 

Mrs. Weasley yelped in surprise and was over at once, helping her pick the books off the floor. “Are you okay? These must be so heavy! Is there a reason why you couldn’t just levitate them?” 

Hermione looked down at the books, then gave up all at once and slid to sit down on the floor of the lift. “You know what, I was so distracted I honestly forgot I could use magic on them.” 

She closed her eyes, then felt an arm snake around her to give her a gentle squeeze. She shivered. 

The lift door opened then––Hermione didn’t dare open her eyes to see who it was. She didn’t recognize the voice; someone said something embarrassed and got right back off. She let her head fall onto Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder as the door shut again. 

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Weasley asked after a moment. 

Hermione opened her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t think I am.” She almost missed her fight with the Azkaban liaison; it had been such a good distraction from the dramatic change she’d just effected in her life. 

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Weasley asked gently. 

Hermione almost scoffed. “You know what it is.” 

Mrs. Weasley sighed. “Yes, Ron told us last night.” 

Hermione looked down at the floor. It was worn and cracked, the kind of old tile that could never look quite clean again no matter how many times it got mopped. “How is he?” She couldn’t resist asking. 

“He’ll be fine. He’s upset, of course. He loves you, you know.” 

“I know,” said Hermione. _But I don’t love him,_ she thought. _Not really._

She looked down at the floor again. 

“I had to do it, though,” she said, defensively. “I just had to. It wasn’t right anymore. Not for him, not for me…” Fear shot through her. Mrs. Weasley might be comforting her now, but who knew how she was really feeling about it? “Please don’t hate me. I really love your family and I simply couldn’t bear it if you hated me.” 

“There, there,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “We’re not going to hate you.” 

Hermione didn’t dare believe her, but she didn’t want to press it. “I’m all alone,” she whispered, more because it hit her in that moment. “Least until Harry comes back. But he’s all I’ve got.” 

“You’re not alone,” said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. Her tone was so strong it almost made Hermione feel better. “Rest. Come by Arthur’s office and let’s make you a cup of tea.” 

Hermione almost accepted, feeling very tempted, but she felt anxious all the same. Bartleby would be almost finished with his alimony hearing by now. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t. I have to get back to work…” 

The lift door opened then to her floor, and she jumped in shock to see Draco framed in the doorway. She was on the floor, surrounded by open books, in Mrs. Weasley’s arms; she must look a _sight._ She couldn’t bear to imagine what he must think of her right now. 

“Hermione?” He sounded surprised, and he looked concerned. He stepped into the lift. 

Hermione shrank back into the corner. 

“Are you all right? I mean––Granger,” he stammered, his eyes finding Mrs. Weasley. “Hello, Mrs. Weasley.” 

Mrs. Weasley returned the greeting in steely tones. 

Draco held open the lift door, as it was threatening to shut, then offered a hand to Mrs. Weasley and then to Hermione. She let him help her to her feet, shielding her eyes by keeping them to the floor. She didn’t dare look at his expression. 

The books began to move on the floor around her, swooping up into their air. She risked a glance and saw Draco had formed them into a little floating library above her head. He whispered something and the books sorted themselves into alphabetical order. She smiled in spite of herself. 

They all stepped out of the lift into the hall. 

“Well,” said Draco, after a moment. “I’ve just realized these books are under control of my wand and not yours. May I send them somewhere for you?” 

Hermione nodded hesitantly. “They go in Bartleby’s office. It’s the same room where you and your mother came for your legal consultation.” 

“Right.” A cloud fell over Draco’s face at the reminder. 

Hermione turned to Mrs. Weasley, feeling in need of warmth. “May I have that cup of tea to go?” she asked quietly. There wasn’t tea in Bartleby’s office, and she’d drunk most of the supply in her beaded bag. 

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Weasley, flashing her a quick smile. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, feeling small and defensive again. “I really appreciate it. I’m sorry; this must be so awkward for you and Mr. Weasley. I’m sure Ron needs more comforting than me.” 

“Are you all right?” Draco piped up next to her, sounding concerned. 

“Yes...well.” Hermione bit her lip. “I’ll tell you later. I’ll be back in a minute. Do you mind taking the books back?” 

“Of course, have a tea.” Draco looked eager to help. “I’ll drop these off in Bartleby’s office.” 

“Thank you. I hate to inconvenience you…” 

“It’s not an inconvenience.” 

The tiniest of smiles found its way to her lips. “Well, thank you.” 

Mrs. Weasley put an arm around her shoulders again. “Let’s get you that cup of tea, shall we?” 

Mrs. Weasley steered her down the hall to Mr. Weasley’s office, which was to the left of the lift across from the Auror Department. He was in a little series of converted closets, and his department was just as crammed with paperwork as Hermione’s office. 

“Molly! Hermione!” Mr. Weasley’s face lit up when he saw them, making Hermione feel instantly more at ease. He swept his wand across the floor, clearing the papers to either side to form a little path. “I’d offer you a seat, but I’m afraid…” He gestured at the mess around him, which had all the furniture quite buried. 

“Lots of work?” Mrs. Weasley said sympathetically, letting her arm slide off of Hermione’s shoulders. 

“That Portkey licensing case of Percy’s has spilled over into my office,” Mr. Weasley said wearily. “Apparently there’s a fear Muggles might fall victim to illicit Portkeys. Unfounded, mind you. But Percy’s taken the precaution of subpoenaing all the Portkey licenses unprotected by the statute of limitations, and apparently we are best equipped to determine if there may have been a problem with Muggles…” 

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “He’s due for a scolding, that one.” 

“No, no, it’s quite all right, he’s just doing his job,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay late all this week, though.” 

“That’s too bad, dear.” Mrs. Weasley gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “I brought your lunch—” she passed him a cloth-wrapped bundle. 

Mr. Weasley’s face lit up. “Thank you! I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten. My, is it that time already?” 

Mrs. Weasley smiled. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I just brought Hermione in for a cuppa. I found her in the lift, drowning under some paperwork of her own.” 

Mr. Weasley nodded. “Of course, of course. I’ve kept the kettle out on Allerton’s desk; more room, you see.” He herded them out into the anteroom, which was only slightly larger, and magically filled the kettle, charming some blue flames beneath it. “Hermione, how are you holding up?” 

Hermione looked away again, feeling pained. “Well enough. I’m terribly sorry––” 

But Mr. Weasley was shaking his head. “Don’t be. We’re not upset with you.” 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, feeling color flood back into the world for the first time all day. “You’re beyond wonderful.” 

Mr. Weasley magicked some tea leaves into a cup, filled it with water from the kettle, and handed it to her. “Does this have to be to go? You’re welcome to stay longer.” 

Hermione shook her head. “I’m afraid it does. I’ve got to help Bartleby prepare for case meetings, we’ve got a big one tomorrow…” She sipped the tea, and smiled at both of them. “Thank you so much for the tea, and for––” Warmth flood her, and she set it down and quickly hugged both of them in turn. “Thank you.” She hurried out the door. 

It wasn’t far to Bartleby’s office, and she was starting to feel better already. The Weasleys were such wonderful people. Maybe she wasn’t alone. 

She pushed open the door to find Draco lounging on one of the couches in the lobby. He scrambled up as she came in. 

“No, no, don’t get up,” she said, taking a seat across from him. She sank into the leather chair, letting herself breathe. 

“I put your books back in the office,” Draco said. 

She thanked him and let her head roll back on the back of the chair. 

“Is everything okay?” He asked, sounding anxious. “Did something happen with you and Ron?” 

She nodded, closing her eyes. “We broke up.” 

“Oh.” His tone was very hard to read. 

“It’s a good thing.” 

“That’s good.” Now he sounded relieved. 

There were footsteps in the hall, too loud, running, and then a body slammed against the door and thrust it open. 

Hermione whipped around to see Ron framed in the doorway, a sight, hair mussed and robes askew. 

“Hermione, Mum said we still like you and you have to talk to me, this doesn’t have to be over yet––” Ron caught sight of Draco sitting on the couch and his face changed at once. He stepped back, pointing at him, his arm shaking. “YOU! I can’t believe it––you’re in here with him, after _everything_ I told you––” 

Hermione was on her feet. “Ron, you need to _go––”_

“How could you _do_ this! How can you even look at him, after what he did to you?! How can you look at him when you say you don’t even want anything to do with me?!” 

“Just LEAVE IT!” Hermione screeched, feeling her breath leave her body along with her words. She almost crumpled to the floor. She wanted this day to be over; wanted to go home, get out of here–– 

Draco stood up behind her and politely started for the door. “Shall I…” 

Ron grabbed his wand and pointed it at Draco. “And YOU! The nerve of you; I’ll show you, you little––” 

Hermione whipped out her wand and pointed it at Ron. “Don’t you dare!” 

Ele came running into the lobby then from her office. She took one look around the room and called for security, then tapped her throat with her wand to magically enhance her voice. 

“No––” Ron panicked, looking at Ele, and shoved his wand back into his robes. “Don’t call the Auror office, my boss is already pissed at me––” He shoved open the door and ran out into the hall. 

“Right,” said Draco after a moment, standing awkwardly. “You okay?” 

Hermione nodded weakly and sank back into the chair, draping her arm over her forehead. 

Ele came over to the chair, her expression furious. 

“What is the meaning of this?” She demanded. 

Hermione groaned and sat up to face her. “I’m so sorry. I broke up with him last night, and...I dunno…” She shrugged, at a loss for words. 

“Ah,” said Ele, considering. “He can’t come barging in here. I’ll cover for you this time, but you’re lucky Bartleby wasn’t here. He wouldn’t have it.” 

Hermione nodded weakly. “I don’t think he’ll do it again.” She wanted to close her eyes, meld into the chair, slip inside it and hide under the overstuffed vinyl. 

“He’d better not.” Ele frowned at her for another minute, then marched back to her office. 

The clock on the wall ticked slowly. 

“You sure you’re okay?” 

She opened her eyes to see Draco. She had almost forgotten he was there. 

“Yeah,” she said, pushing herself up to a more normal sitting position. “I’m sorry, again. This has all been very unprofessional of me.” 

Draco laughed slightly. “You’re fine, we grew up together. You don’t have to be professional around me.” 

Hermione scratched the seam of the armchair with her fingernail. The nail was growing rather long and she really ought to do something with it––cut it, or get a manicure, maybe. 

“Why were you here?” She asked, after a second. “We don’t have a meeting scheduled for today.” 

“I was here to look for you, actually.” 

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. “Why?” 

She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear him slide forward on the couch to lean closer to her. 

“Can we go for drinks tonight? Please?” 

She turned to look at him. He seemed to be in earnest. 

“I really need to speak with you about something.” 

“Why not here?” said Hermione. “We can go in my office.” 

Draco shook his head. “We can’t,” he said. “Listen––just the Leaky Cauldron, or something. Doesn’t have to be for long. And it’s not a date or anything. I just really need to ask you about something.” 

She started to reply, but he stood up and cut her off. 

“At eight,” he said. “I know you have to stay late, so eight. Or nine. Or ten. I’ll be there in the back. Just...come.” 

“Wait, Draco––” 

He was out the door before she could finish her response. 

Hermione sighed and put her head in her hands. Her emotions were a tangle of confusion. She had sort of felt bad for Ron before, that he was being broken up with and that she knew how that felt, but she wasn’t feeling so sympathetic anymore. And now she wasn’t feeling particularly bereft, either. She’d been steeling herself for a horrible day of regret and sorrow and maybe a few tears in the ladies’ room, but her actual feelings were starting to tend more toward...relief? 

A paper airplane zoomed in, stamped on the side with a very official seal. It flew down the hall to Ele’s office, and she came out a moment later, staring at the unfolded parchment. 

“This says you’ve won on the Azkaban piece,” said Ele, her brow furrowed. 

“We have?” Hermione stood up to come see. 

Ele nodded. “You must have done a great job down there. You’ve won very...thoroughly. Lucius Malfoy can now come here for all his attorney visits, he’s had his normal prisoner’s rights restored, he’s being moved to a private cell, and he’s even been granted the right to have his own food delivered from outside the prison.” 

Hermione blinked in surprise. “Wow. That’s...quite a lot. Talk about special treatment.” 

Ele looked up at her, her gaze still searching. “You and Bartleby must’ve put up a very convincing argument. The Auror office normally doesn’t let go that easily.” 

“I don’t think it could have been me.” Hermione took the letter from Ele, but sure enough the signature at the bottom was that of the man she’d yelled at earlier. “My attempts sort of devolved into a shouting match with the Azkaban liaison, but...” She shrugged. 

Ele was looking at her searchingly. “I’m surprised you convinced him with bluster. I’ve really only seen that work for Bartleby. You’re more likely to get lasting results using more diplomatic methods.” Ele folded up the letter. “Well, you work very hard, I’ll give you that. Bartleby will be pleased to see this.” 

“Thanks,” said Hermione. “I’ve actually already put in thirty hours extra toward that bonus.” It had been exhausting, but she swelled just a little with pride saying it. 

“You have?” Ele gestured for her to summon the timesheet. “Really?” 

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, between that issue with the Malfoy case and Bibshot and the alimony division––” 

Ele looked at her timesheet and frowned. “You can’t bill this to the client,” she said, jabbing her finger at the hours Hermione had worked that weekend. “It’s Bartleby’s own divorce. The firm has to eat that cost.” 

“What?” A panicked feeling rose in her throat, but she tried to tamp it down; be professional. “But it still counts toward the bonus hours, right?” 

Ele shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She summoned a quill and scratched out some of Hermione’s writing, attributing the work instead to the firm. She handed the timesheet back. “It’s good you did it, in a way. It’ll definitely curry favor with Bartleby. But it was essentially volunteer time.” 

Hermione looked down at the timesheet. “But I didn’t feel like I could say no…” 

Ele shrugged. “You can never make a no stick around here. You’ve got to couch it in an argument. ‘I’d love to, but as you know, I’ve got all this other client work, and I can’t do both well in that time frame, so help me prioritize.’” She picked up her satchel to go back to her own office. “He can afford his own lawyer, he’s just proud and a bit of a cheapskate.” 

Hermione went back to her office and began researching more on inheritance law, which was still a mystery to her. It was dull work, but today dull seemed far preferable to anything more painful. 

The door banged shut in the lobby and Hermione ducked out of her office to see Bartleby. He looked odd––shorter than usual, running on stubby little legs as fast as he could go. He seemed awkward and strange-looking in a way he usually didn’t. 

He saw her looking at him and punched a fist in the air as he waddled past her office. “I am divorced!” He exclaimed. “Victory!” 

Bartleby seemed to be in an exceptionally jovial mood, so Hermione followed him to his office, lingering outside the threshold. 

Bartleby made straight for the globe and popped it open to pour himself a celebratory brandy. 

“So the proof points worked?” Hermione asked, wanting to take some credit. 

“What?” Bartleby lifted an empty glass bottle to the light and frowned at it. “Yes, yes. Very convincing.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. Did you hear Lucius Malfoy’s had all his prisoners’ rights restored and then some?” 

“Top notch!” The bottles clanked against one another in the globe as Bartleby rooted around, looking for one containing liquid. He kept lifting them up and checking, but they all seemed to be empty. He must have drained them all in his drinking binge that morning. 

“Yes, so we don’t have to go to Azkaban tomorrow after all.” 

“That’s brilliant.” Bartleby lifted up the last bottle, which was also empty, and then left the globe sitting open as he threw on his traveling cloak and hefted his leather satchel under his arm. 

There really was something strange about his face. She’d never noticed quite how large his nose was before, and his eyebrows seemed almost connected. 

“Say, if anyone from the Minister’s office comes calling, tell them I’m having a sick day, won’t you?” Bartleby hurried toward the door. “I can’t be bothered by anyone. Tell them it’s something really nasty. Contagious.” 

“Are you okay, sir?” Hermione called after him. 

He only waved in answer. 

He’d been gone barely a minute when the lobby door slammed open and the Minister for Magic himself barged in, filling up the doorway with his broad shoulders. “Bartleby!” He bellowed. 

“Minister!” Hermione managed, scurrying toward the lobby, feeling like she’d had the breath knocked out of her. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt fixed her with a sharp eye, his face thunderous. “Where is that little rat of a barrister?” 

“He––He just left,” said Hermione, coming closer as several important-looking men and women who comprised Kingsley’s retinue filled into the lobby behind him. “He’s, er, sick. It’s something really nasty. And contagious.” 

Kingsley gave her a disgusted look. But then his face softened and he lowered his voice to a normal speaking volume. “How are you, Granger? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?” 

“I’m well, thank you,” she said, still feeling a little breathless. “It’s good to see you again.” 

Kingsley nodded, looking around and taking in the sights of the lobby. 

“Can I...help you?” 

He looked at her again, and she felt at once childish and clammy under the spotlight of his gaze. All his attending witches and wizards turned to look at her, too. 

“You work here?” Kingsley demanded, and she nodded. He grimaced. “D’you know what your boss just did?” 

Hermione shook her head. 

Kingsley sucked in his breath through his teeth. “The illustrious...Bartimeus Bartleby...whom I have known for many a season, known as a sniveling, conniving little weasel who spent his days buttering up my predecessors, just barged into my office and _demanded_ that I grant his client a full pardon.” 

Hermione’s mouth must have fallen open, because he looked somewhat mollified the next time his gaze fell on her. 

“Mad, isn’t it? I assume you know who the client is, given that you work here?” He inclined his head. 

Hermione nodded quickly. It must have been Lucius Malfoy; she didn’t think Bartleby had another pending criminal case right now. 

Kingsley drew back his shoulders, seeming to add several inches to his already impressive height. “The sheer...the _audacity._ Miss Granger, I...I couldn’t believe it. It was a reminder of the worst of the Ministry, the corruption that lets some people live outside the law. I of course told him in no uncertain terms that a pardon for such a man is _unthinkable,_ and that I’ll have his head on a platter if he dares show such insolence again.” 

Hermione tried to straighten up herself. “Of course. I’ll...pass that on to him, when he’s back.” 

Kingsley fixed a steely eye on her. “This is the problem with the Ministry, you understand,” he said, but his voice was softer now, his tone gentle like he was advising her. “We keep protecting our own, and the people who could stand up and stop it, don’t.” 

He signaled to his retinue that he was ready to go, and they fell into line around him and left the office. 

Hermione stood there in the lobby, knees almost knocking together. Something in Kingsley’s last words felt like it had hit uncomfortably close to home. 

* * *

Ele crept out of her office a few minutes later, her face ashen. “That was the Minister?” 

Hermione nodded. “You heard?” 

“Yeah.” Ele swore under her breath. “That...that _Bartleby._ This isn’t the first time he’s done something reckless, you know.” 

Hermione waited for Ele to continue, but she didn’t, so she prompted her. “Is it?” 

“Oh, no.” Ele seemed pleased to have a listener. She wrapped her arms across her chest and looked down at the floor. “Did he tell you why he’s had to get a divorce?” 

Hermione shook her head. 

Ele almost smiled. “Well. He was doing just fine, him and his wife––she’s loaded, you know? She invented the Probity Probe. Made a _fortune_ during the war.” 

Hermione made a face. 

Ele echoed it. “I know. At any rate, last Christmas, the Ministry held its annual Christmas Gala. Very fancy. Loads of important guests. And Bartleby goes and gets caught snogging Warbeck in a broom closet.” 

Hermione frowned. “Warbeck?” She didn’t recognize the name, but assumed it didn’t belong to Bartleby’s wife. 

Ele looked appalled. _“Celestina_ Warbeck. You know? The singer?” 

Now it was Hermione’s turn to look shocked. “Celestina Warbeck? She went for _Bartleby?”_ She only knew Celestina Warbeck from Mrs. Weasley’s Wizarding Wireless preferences, but she understood the singer was a very elegant and beautiful woman. 

Ele nodded, her eyes wide. “I _know,_ right? I mean, _why?_ It’s not like she’s married, but him?” 

Hermione made a face. “Really! And I guess Bartleby’s wife found out?” 

Ele nodded. “Found him, is more like. There was a huge scene. _Witch Weekly_ was going to run a piece on it, but then decided not to.” She frowned. “Which was strange, really. They had it all written up. I even saw it when I had to go argue with Jenna Prufroot. But then they just...decided not to run it.” She shrugged. “Bartleby can be pretty reckless sometimes. But it always works out after, somehow. You, however, should get back to work.”

“I’ve finished the work Bartleby’d asked me to do,” said Hermione. 

Ele almost smiled. “Have you? That’s brilliant. I’m utterly drowning under this enormous will. I could really use your help with it.” 

So Hermione spent an afternoon trudging through a lengthy will written in an archaic hand, helping Ele take notes on who got what. It was sort of pleasant working with Ele, though she could be sharp-tongued sometimes when Hermione wasn’t catching on quickly enough. After a few hours she was surreptitiously checking her pocket watch as the hours ticked away, going back and forth on whether she ought to meet Draco at the Leaky Cauldron or just go home and turn in early. 

Ele finally released her after supper when they’d at last finished with the will. Stepping out into the empty Ministry halls, Hermione decided she would go speak with Draco after all. The idea of her flat seemed awfully bare and lonesome right now, and putting it off as much as she could would be a welcome respite.


	29. Not a Date

Hermione pushed open the door to the Leaky Cauldron, the bells jangling above her as she stepped into its cozy gloom. It had been years since she’d come through the Muggle entrance, as she usually just Apparated into Diagon Alley, but the Ministry was only a few blocks away and a quick jaunt through the non-magical world had seemed like just the thing to clear her head. 

Her head still wasn’t feeling especially clear, but no matter. 

She pushed through to the bar and ordered herself a hot toddy, then turned to look for Draco. 

He caught sight of her at about the same moment––he was in the far corner, the only head in a tangle of armchairs, pressed up nearly into the wall––and he half rose from his chair, clearly surprised she had come. 

Hermione picked her way over to him past rickety tables and patched armchairs. 

He stood up and offered her a chair, but she waved him off and sat down in one closer to her. 

“Not drinking tonight?” She said, peering at the half-empty glass of water he had on a coaster on the little table. 

Draco shook his head. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here.” 

“Or if.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So.” She knit her hands together. “Not a date, but you really need to talk to me. What’s up?” 

Draco sat back down and looked off to the side. “I just was hoping to ask you something.” 

“And it’s something you can’t ask in my office?” She raised an eyebrow as she sipped her hot toddy. 

He nodded and pitched forward, forearms on his knees. “That’s right.” 

There was a silence. She sipped her drink and put it down and picked it up and sipped it again. 

“So?” She said finally. 

Draco took a breath and looked right at her. “Why are you on my father’s case?” 

She hadn’t been expecting something so direct. Her drink sloshed over the sides of the cup when she set it down. 

“It’s part of my job,” she said, mopping it up with a napkin. “I didn’t choose to be. I was just as surprised as you were when you walked in.” 

Draco nodded, his expression still serious. “Right. But why this job? Why would you pick Bartleby to work for?” 

“Because I needed a job,” said Hermione, her face starting to feel a little hot. She wasn’t sure if it was from the drink or the conversation. “I’m not experienced enough to work anywhere else. I tried. But I need the money for law school. We don’t all have family fortunes we can rely on.” 

“Of course. Sorry.” Draco looked down at his folded hands. 

Hermione wiped down the sides of her cup and sipped it again, looking closely at him. “Does it bother you?” She asked, feeling an odd sensation as she said it. She wasn’t sure if she felt powerful or curious. 

Draco nodded, looking away from her, then sighed and shook his head. “Not like that. It’s not like I have a problem with you being on the case. I just...you’re Hermione Granger. You’re an activist, a rebel; I guess I’m wondering why you’ve decided to defend a Death Eater. How did Bartleby talk you into all this?” 

Hermione set down her drink. “It’s part of what it means to be a lawyer,” she said, repeating her argument for what felt like the millionth time. It was starting to sound flat. “Innocent until proven guilty. Everyone deserves representation.” 

“But my father?” Draco looked pained. 

Hermione frowned. “I will admit I don’t like him. But yes, he’s one of our clients, so he deserves representation, too.” 

“He’s a terrible man, Hermione. You have no idea. He’s not sorry at all.” 

She eyed him. “I thought you worshipped him.” 

Draco laughed, then looked off into space, chewing on his lip for a moment. He looked back down at his water glass. “Worship is a funny word. I suppose you could say that, depending on how you mean it.” 

“How do you mean it?” 

Draco knitted his fingers together and then drew them apart. “Some religions are based on love. Some on fear. Some on getting what you want, some on doing absolutely anything to not get what you don’t want.” 

“So what are you saying?” She asked after a minute. “You don’t like me being on the case?” She eyed him suspiciously. 

“What? No.” He looked at her. “I’m just trying to…” He sighed. “I’m sorry.” He sounded like he meant it. He sipped his water. “It’s not my place. It’s just…” He set the glass back down, empty. “Everything’s backwards, after the war. My father’s in prison, he’s pathetic. Pansy’s off with that Auror donating to Muggleborn Relief causes. And now you…” 

“And now I’m what?” There was a bit of a defensive edge that came out in her voice. 

“I mean, you founded S.P.E.W.” He pronounced each of the letters distinctly. 

She looked up, surprised. “You remember that?” 

He nodded. “Society for the...something about elves. You were an activist, Hermione. You went rogue. You brought down a government. And now you’re editing house-elf ownership documents to make them even less transparent.” 

“Speak for yourself,” said Hermione, reaching for her cup. “You’ve changed, too, Mr. Inquisitorial Squad.” 

He looked pained. 

“No.” She smiled into her drink. “I’m glad you’ve changed.” 

His expression softened. “I’m glad you finally think I have.” 

She was quiet for a minute, and so was he. She was thinking about the house-elves and how she hadn’t known that was what the quitclaim deed was for. How many other things that she objected to might she be getting drawn into out of ignorance? 

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “So why did you want to talk to me so badly? It can’t have just been about the case.” 

Draco let out a breath and looked away. “I dunno. I guess I thought maybe you were plotting something different.” 

“Yeah?” She cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “Like what?” 

Draco shrugged, then laughed slightly. “It sounds ridiculous out loud, but I had some idea that you and Potter and Weasley were meeting secretly at night with the Minister to plot out ways to sort out Ministry corruption.” 

Hermione grinned, then put on a serious face for comic effect. “Hey, it’s not that far-fetched. We used to do that at school.” 

“I know. Dumbledore’s Army.” 

There was silence between them again and they weren’t looking at each other. 

“So you wanted to stop it?” said Hermione, breaking it. 

He shrugged and drew his knees closer together. “No, I wanted to be in on it.” He slapped his hands on his knees and sat up straight. “But, I guess you just have a real job for normal reasons. No secrets.” 

He started to reach for his traveling cloak, but she cut him off. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” She shooed him back into his chair. “You wanted to join us?” 

Draco nodded, looking all at once shy and almost vulnerable. 

Hermione leaned back in her chair, considering the young man in front of her. 

“I mean, I have to end it,” said Draco, talking faster than usual like he was in a rush to get the words out. “My family’s involvement with the Dark Arts. It ends with me. I won’t pass it down. I just have no idea what to do instead, and you lot were always up to something, always plotting against…” 

“I don’t know what that looks like,” said Hermione. “I’ll be honest, I do feel uncomfortable working on some of Bartleby’s cases. But I don’t really know how else to get to a level where I actually can make a difference. And I’m not going to try and sabotage his work or anything; that’s too dishonest.” She drew her knees onto the chair. “I feel like I have a window into the Auror Department, thanks to Harry and Ron. But it’s all….” she trailed off, picking at her robes where they covered her knees. “It’s all so nuanced.” 

Draco was leaning forward; he had been hanging on her every word. Now he kept shifting in his seat like he couldn’t get comfortable, looking off into space. 

“I do think he deserves some level of defense,” he said finally. “No one should get the Dementor’s Kiss. You’re absolutely right about that. And the Dementors shouldn’t be allowed to live in Azkaban. It’s inhumane.” 

Hermione looked up at him. 

“I mean, the thing is with the way we treat prisoners, it’s psychological,” said Draco. His voice sounded loaded with difficulty, like this was the first time he was voicing these thoughts. “It’s not...it’s not just punishment. It’s one thing, putting someone in Azkaban if it’s only a prison. It’s another to force them into a dark place, day in and day out, and I just can’t believe it’s still legal to elect to take their very selves.” Draco pulled his knees up to his chest and turned sideways in his chair, becoming small and like he was seeking comfort. “I really…” 

He stopped and looked around, eyes searching through the faces at the bar. “Sometimes I think it would be more humane to just execute people,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I get that this sounds more civilized, but it _isn’t._ It’s far worse. Better to be dead and still who you are.” 

Hermione breathed sharply in shock at his words. But she didn’t say anything, just listened. 

“But then, these are people who have done terrible things, and they probably deserve it.” Draco shrugged and unfolded himself and put his feet back on the floor. “Maybe I’m identifying too much with them.” 

“Yeah, you probably are,” said Hermione, but the thought weighed on her. It could have been Draco facing the Kiss as well as his father if just a couple of things had gone differently. If he’d fought harder at the Battle; if his plea deal hadn’t gone well. 

It felt chilly inside the pub. The fireplace was down at the other end of the room, and its roaring, licking flames were too far away to cast warmth over here. 

“Well,” said Draco, standing up with an air of finality, “I’ve said quite a lot. More than I really...expected to. I’d best be going.” 

“Good luck,” said Hermione, automatically standing as he did. “If you want to fight the Dark Arts, you’ll find a way. I’ll...let you know if I think of anything, too.” 

Draco stared at her a moment, then smiled, wistfully. “Six years of classes on how to defend against the Dark Arts and this is the best we can do.” 

She let him leave without a reply, stymied for answers. Still hungry for a proper supper, she sat closer to the fire and choked down a hearty vegetable soup. It was uncomfortably hot in this part of the pub. 

 

* * *

She went home after a bit. 

“This is the problem with the Ministry, you understand,” Kingsley’s voice kept echoing in her head. “We keep protecting our own, and the people who could stand up and stop it, don’t.” 

It kept her up and distracted her as she prepared for bed, until she stumbled into the bathroom wrapped in her Gryffindor dressing gown and lurched to a stop in front of the mirror, caught off guard by her own face. 

Who was this Hermione in the mirror? Her lip was curving downward; her eyes were big and a little too shiny; she looked upset. Her curls hung flatter than usual, bedraggled by her shower. She looked older––more like Helen than Hermione. Her mother’s gentle worried face was becoming her own. 

It didn’t look like the anxious but determined little girl who had given herself pep talks in every Hogwarts mirror at some point. And it didn’t look like the worn-down face she would see reflected at her in streams when she washed herself when she was on the run with Harry. 

It looked...different. And it didn’t feel like her own face. 

She scrubbed her face with a towel to dry it and peered in the mirror. If she kept frowning like that, she’d have wrinkles by twenty. She bared her teeth into something like a smile. Then she huffed in disgust and went and threw herself into bed, turning Draco’s words over and over again in her mind.


	30. Recognition

She still felt out of it when she woke up in the morning. She’d had the worst dream where it wasn’t just her parents who couldn’t recognize her, it was everyone. She’d been moving through scenes and Harry thought she was a stranger and Ron didn’t remember her and McGonagall wouldn’t release her diploma because she thought Hermione was someone else. 

After a half-hearted breakfast of some old oatmeal she’d found in a tin at the bottom of the beaded bag (she really, desperately needed to make time to go grocery shopping,) she took a minute to scrawl a quick note to Harry. 

“Hey,” it said. “I hope France is going really well! I don’t know if you heard about me and Ron. I really miss you both and would love the chance to talk. Can I call you in the Floo tonight?” She still didn’t have her own fireplace, but there were so many at the Ministry that if she stayed late enough she could surely find an empty one for a few minutes of personal use. 

She Apparated to the Ministry and got into the lift and about halfway up to her floor she started to feel much better. It was such a swift change it was suspicious. She made sure to glance at herself in the polished brass of the elevator door as she exited, and sure, the blurry face didn’t look like the girl she was used to seeing, but it looked like a confident young legal professional about to score some wins. 

...wait, since when did she think of herself like that? 

Torn, but with her doubts receding more the closer she got, Hermione stepped into the office. 

“Good morning,” said Matthew the receptionist, then blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief. “I wab sick yesderday.” 

“You sound like you could use a little more rest,” said Hermione. 

Matthew shook his head. “Oh, no. I’b good.” 

Hermione brushed past into her office, but she’d barely let her bag fall from her shoulder when she heard Bartleby call her from down the hall. 

“I think she’s in,” she could hear him saying to someone else. 

Hermione straightened up, dusted herself off, and went into the office. 

To her surprise she walked into find Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking very relaxed, perched with Bartleby on the edge of his desk, eating bagels together and chatting like old friends. 

To say she was surprised was just scratching the surface. If she had been carrying anything, she would have dropped it. 

“Granger!” Kingsley smiled at her and waved her into the closest armchair. “Old Barty and I were just talking about you.” 

Hermione gingerly took a seat, and a bagel that “Old Barty” offered her. This was a very different interaction than she had expected yesterday when the Minister had stormed in demanding Bartleby’s head on a platter. 

“Yes,” said Bartleby, grinning. He looked normal again, which was catching Hermione off guard. She tried to zero in on his unibrow, which she remembered rather vividly, but for some reason she couldn’t make her eyes focus on that part of his face. Her gaze kept sliding up or down or sideways. “I was telling him how talented you are and how quickly you’ve picked up on our work here.” 

“Sounds like Bartleby’s got himself a rising star,” said Kingsley, biting into the bagel. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, taking a hesitant nibble of the bagel. It was blueberry flavored. 

“Yes, yes, and what better way to prove herself than with this terribly difficult Malfoy case?” Said Bartleby to Kingsley. 

“I quite agree,” said Kingsley, looking unnaturally cheerful in a way that made Hermione look down at her bagel suspiciously. Perhaps there was some kind of potion in it? She decided not to eat the rest. 

“I mean, a pardon? Pah!” Bartleby forced a laugh. “The refuge of the unskilled, that’s what I always say. I was just understaffed, you see. But a full court trial, with the right preparation––” Bartleby waved at Hermione. “She’ll blossom.” 

“Yes, absolutely,” said Kingsley. “We need more young talent at the Ministry.” 

“And for that, I need Wadsworth Digby.” 

Kingsley choked on his bagel. Bartleby pounded him on the back and Kingsley thanked him, coughing. 

“Digby?” He said when he had recovered. “Wadsworth Digby? _Really?”_

“Yes, Digby,” said Bartleby, quite unbothered. “He’s a crack solicitor.” 

“He served a term in Azkaban for tax evasion,” said Kingsley, appalled. 

“You have to know the law very well to do that,” said Bartleby, taking a butterknife and slathering copious amounts of cream cheese onto a new bagel half. “Mind you, he wouldn’t have gotten caught if his brother hadn’t sold him out in a plea deal.” 

“Absolutely not,” said Kingsley, shaking his head vigorously. “For one thing, he’s lost his license to practice.” 

“Yes, that is a problem,” said Bartleby. “But you could restore him to the bar. It was twenty years ago. He hasn’t offended since.” 

“He hasn’t had much chance, working on the assembly line at Packard’s Potion Plant,” said Kingsley. 

“He’s kept his mind sharp, though,” argued Bartleby. “Five-time winner of the Daily Prophet crossword.” 

“I can’t give you Digby.” Kingsley scoffed. “It’s ridiculous. The man’s a disgrace.” 

Bartleby shrugged. “All right, then. I want Milbert.” 

Kingsley peered at him a moment. “Horton Milbert? The solicitor who followed Crimbley to France to oversee his estate?” 

Bartleby nodded cheerfully. “That’s the one. He’d have to be let back on the bar, too.” 

Kingsley frowned, considering. 

“Did you know, I’m considering taking on a prosecution role?” said Bartleby in a faux-casual voice. “Arguing for the Ministry in the case against Dolores Umbridge?” 

Kingsley perked up slightly. “Are you?” 

“Yes, yes.” Bartleby took an enormous bite of his bagel and used a napkin to dab cream cheese off his cheeks. “I was speaking with your deputy about it earlier. She’ll most likely go with a Superior Orders defense. Milbert’d knock that down right quick, you know. He helped draft most of our current culpability policy after the First Wizarding War.” 

“Yes, and then he was disbarred,” said Kingsley. 

“Only because he let his credentials lapse.” Bartleby wiped crumbs off his robes. “He’s still practicing in France, you know.” 

Kingsley considered for a long minute. “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll put in a good word for Milbert if he resubmits.” 

“Thank you,” said Bartleby. 

“But under no circumstances can you have Digby.” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Ever.” 

“Understood.” Bartleby grinned and winked at Hermione when Kingsley wasn’t looking. 

“Well, I’d better be going,” said Kingsley, brushing crumbs off his robes and sliding off Bartleby’s desk. “I’ve got the country to run, and all that.” 

“You do it supremely well, sir,” said Bartleby, throwing up a salute. 

Kingsley gave him a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you.” He turned to Hermione on his way out. “Stay sharp there, Granger! We need more people like you.” 

Hermione turned back to Bartleby as soon as the Minister was gone, trying her hardest to keep her expression from turning into a giant question mark. 

Bartleby rubbed his hands gleefully. “And that’s how it’s done,” he said to her. “Always ask for more and then for what you really want.” 

Hermione stood there blankly for a moment, a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue, but couldn’t figure out how to formulate them. She turned to go to her own office. 

“Granger,” said Bartleby, “if I do land the Umbridge prosecution, would you have a conflict of interest on the case?” 

Hermione stopped and turned back, thinking. “Probably,” she said. “What’s she in for?” 

“War crimes,” said Bartleby, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet and grinning. “Related to her time at the Ministry during the war. The Muggleborn Registry effort and all that.” 

Hermione did her best not to show the relief she felt that the woman was getting hauled up on such serious charges. It almost made her feel better about the Malfoy case to know her firm was defending Muggleborns everywhere, too. 

“I did have some issues with her at school,” said Hermione, being honest. “She was terrible to the students. She tortured my friend and I hated her for that, and I don’t know if you know, but I lured her into the forest and let the centaurs have her. She definitely blames me for that.” 

“But you’re not related to her or anything?” 

“Related to her? Goodness, no.” Hermione wrinkled her face in disgust. “I’m Muggleborn. I haven’t got any wizarding relatives.” 

“Excellent.” Bartleby rubbed his hands together gleefully. “And no conflicting business interests?” 

“I haven’t really got a business,” said Hermione, confused. “I work here.” 

“Brilliant, then I determine there are no conflicts of interest,” said Bartleby, clapping his hands together. 

Hermione frowned. “Sir, but doesn’t my previous history with her and the fact that we hate each other pose a risk to the client’s receipt of fair work?” 

Bartleby went over to his desk and plopped into his overstuffed leather rolling chair. “I am the attorney, and I get to decide, and I say, _no._ Not anymore than it does with the Malfoy case.” 

Her stomach started to feel a bit queasy. She remembered Draco’s words last night, his concern and confusion about why she had decided to take the case. 

“Doesn’t it pose a bit of a conflict with the Malfoy case, too?” She asked, carefully. 

Bartleby shook his head. “What? No, no. You’ve been very professional with the Malfoy case. Quite discreet.” 

Her heart skipped a beat and she felt sick to her stomach, remembering that Ron knew, and he’d told Harry, and his parents, and probably Seamus and Dean. 

“Sir…” she said, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. But she had to come clean, or he would just find out some other way, and that would be far worse. 

“Yes?” Bartleby looked up, waiting. 

“I…haven’t been fully discreet regarding the Malfoy case,” said Hermione, sinking into one of his chairs. 

Bartleby knitted his fingers together slowly and looked over the top of them at her. “What does that mean?” 

“It means…” Hermione took a breath. “I received a piece of correspondence from Draco Malfoy at my home address, we’re friends, sort of, and my ex-boyfriend put two and two together and realized I was working on the case. My ex-boyfriend works for the Auror Department. And he’s been telling people.” 

The air in the room stiffened and grew tense. Bartleby looked down at his hands for a minute before saying anything. “And he’s been telling others in the Auror Department that our firm is working for the Malfoys? That you’re on it?” 

Hermione swallowed. “Well, I don’t know, sir. I begged him not to tell _anyone._ But he’s told his father, at least––he works for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office––and our friend Harry. Harry Potter.” 

Bartleby clicked his tongue, considering. “And did you have the client’s permission to disclose your work on the case?” 

Hermione shook her head, feeling very small. “No, sir. He went through my mail and invaded my privacy to find out. I’ve broken things off with him. But…it was a breach, sir.” She looked up, not sure what she would find written across the face in front of her. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I know it’s a very serious issue and I’m prepared to face any consequences.” 

Bartleby’s fingers unwound themselves from one another and he reached for the latch of his liquor globe. He opened it and poured himself just a sip of brandy, which he swirled in the glass before drinking slowly. He put the glass down and turned it, playing with which angles caught the light from his desk candles. 

Hermione watched, her dread mounting. She’d done a little research on legal professional privilege in the wee hours that morning before work, as it kept gnawing at her, and she knew that as a paralegal she couldn’t be sued for malpractice at least. But she could get Bartleby sued. And he could fire her. 

“I suppose it’s not the worst thing in the world,” said Bartleby finally, looking up at her. “I’ll go ahead and get the client’s permission to disclose our work, and we’ll keep this little breach between us. It may well help us land more business.” 

Hermione felt like she could finally breathe again. She filled her lungs with air and let it out, shaky with relief. 

“Do be careful,” said Bartleby, standing up and picking up his traveling cloak of his coat stand. “But if a Malfoy was contacting you about the case, I may be able to persuade them to allow us to disclose.” He put a few papers and ink bottles into his satchel. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Hermione, standing.

Bartleby smiled at her. “No problem. I’m just going to pop off to Azkaban for a bit. Tell Ele you’re going to be staying later than usual so the two of you can draft the contracts I was planning to work on.” 

“Of course.” 

Hermione waited until he was out of the room and then breathed a huge, shaky sigh of relief. She bowed her head and rested it on her hand for a moment. It was going to be okay; she felt better having come clean. But there was still something keeping her from feeling totally happy. Some undercurrent, some edge. 

“Granger!” That was Ele calling from the front. “Come help me sort these files.” 

* * *

 

A few hours later Harry’s new owl zipped in carrying a quick note in Ginny’s slanted scrawl.

“What happened with Ron??” She was asking. “Good or bad?” 

Hermione let the letter sit on her desk for an hour or so, trying to think of a decent response, then finally gave up and grabbed it and scribbled, “Bad––we’re over.” 

Lunchtime passed and a little after the same owl came back again, this time carrying no note but loaded down by a big bar of chocolate. 

Hermione smiled. Ginny really was so sweet. 

Hermione managed to give Harry and Ginny a call using one of the Ministry fireplaces that night, and maybe it was because they’d had a few hours to process it, but neither of them seemed especially upset by the news that she and Ron had broken up. 

“It’s over?” Ginny confirmed, her eyes wide and gentle. “It’s really, really over?” 

Hermione said it was. 

Then Ginny asked how she was feeling and she told them about her mysterious evening pub trip with Draco, and how he seemed to be trying to fight the Dark Arts, and Harry sounded surprised but half-jokingly said he would recommend him for an Auror position if he wanted one. 

Hermione asked about France––it was going very well, apparently; they had a little cottage in the middle of the country and were waking up early to fly via broomstick and Disillusionment charm to all of Ginny’s games and practices. She’d had one game so far and had performed brilliantly, and both she and Harry started excitedly spouting off numbers that Hermione didn’t understand. 

Ginny had to go at one point to be in time for a team night out, and Harry waved her off and told her he’d join her shortly before turning back to Hermione. 

“Um, Hermione,” he said, a shy grin on his face, “I think I’m going to ask Ginny to marry me.” 

Hermione gasped as her heart swooped in excitement. “Oh, Harry, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you!” Harry snuck a glance behind him to make sure Ginny hadn’t heard. “I haven’t told anyone yet. I’ve just been thinking about it for a while, and being with her in France these past few days have just really confirmed it. I think she’s the one.” 

“Oh, _Harry…”_ she said, feeling a glowing sensation. “How are you going to ask her?” 

“I dunno,” said Harry. “I’m not going to ask her tomorrow or anything, I still need to sneak off and get a ring. And it’s not like I’m in a hurry. We’re so young, you know? But I feel like it’s the next step, and we’ve talked about it and everything. She’s in. I think.”

“Well, that’s a good sign you’ve talked about it,” said Hermione. She smiled as an idea came to her. “You should ask her in _Paris,_ Harry. It would be so romantic. You could get one of those boats on the Seine, with candles and champagne when all the stars are out, or you could take her to the top of the Eiffel tower…” 

Harry’s face lit up as she was speaking. “That’s brilliant, Hermione. Definitely. I hadn’t even given a thought to where, I was mostly focused on the words.” 

“So you’ve got the words?” 

“Oh, yes. Several possible versions.” 

Then it was getting late and Harry had to go follow Ginny to her team outing, so Hermione bade him farewell and slipped back out of the Ministry fireplace. 

She slept well that night.


	31. The Paralegal of Azkaban

Hermione took care to tread lightly around Bartleby the next morning, coming in even earlier than usual and being extra polite, but if he trusted her any less after her admission that Ron had found out about the case, he seemed to have put it aside. He had her paging through confidential documents all morning, and when it was time for the Malfoys to come in for a consultation, he wanted her taking notes again.

The office seemed to grow steadily darker hours before the Dementors even arrived. It was something about the dread, the mounting depression; Ele kept chewing the end of her quill, worry lines creasing her forehead, and Matthew’s cold made a convenient comeback and sent him home just before the Malfoys arrived.

Narcissa swept in, a little less pomp in her step, and never left the shelter of her fur-lined velvet traveling cloak. Draco wore silver robes and he and Hermione said some words to one another at first, but the air hung so heavy they didn’t mean anything and she couldn’t remember after what had been said.

Lucius and his guards were late. Narcissa tapped her sharp nails on the carved wood of the reception chair. Draco had broken into a cold sweat. Bartleby was scratching away at different documents on his desk.

Hermione sat until she just couldn’t take it anymore. She knew what was causing the heaviness; Harry had taught her how to fight it…she slipped her wand out of her robes under the edge of the desk and tried to think of something happy. _“Expecto Patronum,”_ she thought, as strong as she could. But nothing happened.

She clenched her jaw, hating this part. How could Harry just…and then she…she screwed up her forehead and focused, imagining her pride when she’d got that letter, when she’d found out she’d gotten all O’s on her N.E.W.T.s. There wasn’t even a spark from her wand. So maybe that wasn’t happiness, maybe that was satisfaction. She concentrated on her conversation with Harry and Ginny last night, on how joyous it was that they would be getting engaged…but that didn’t work either, it wasn’t quite strong enough…

Had she been happy at all? Her eyes pricked a bit as she searched for memories. Everything seemed tainted. None of her memories of when she’d first gotten with Ron were working now, not when anger and frustration colored over them. Damn it, when had she last been happy?

Draco cleared his throat, trying to be unobtrusive. Narcissa was staring into space and seemed to be worlds away. Next to her, Bartleby was still scratching away with his quill with a ferocity that might indicate he, too, was trying to distract himself from interior torment.

Think, Hermione, think…and then she had it. It was a split second, crowded on either side with grief, but a split second of pure joy. It was when she’d gone to find her parents, the moment she had first seen them, the moment before they’d seen her and not known who she was. It had been a moment of overwhelming love, of longing, of gratitude that they were alive and safe and right there in front of her. _Expecto Patronum._ A silver otter burst from the tip of her wand and swam across the room, knocking into Draco’s knee.

He jumped, startled, but then grinned and seemed a little lighter. Narcissa followed the otter with her eyes, but her face seemed a little less heavy. Bartleby bumped into his ink bottle with his wrist and spilled it everywhere.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Hermione ventured, bridging the silence. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Bartleby grunted something, but it didn’t sound angry. He siphoned the spilled ink back into the bottle with his wand.

Narcissa gave her a grateful smile, which was so quick and unlike her that as soon as it was gone Hermione started wondering if she’d imagined it.

The door opened then and the threshold filled with the figures in the hall. Lucius was framed between two Aurors, looking even worse for the wear than he had before. He was a bony bit of filling for his ragged prison robes. Behind the three of them loomed black-robed dementors, and the sight of their chasm-like mouths turned Hermione’s Patronus all wobbly and vanished it.

The Aurors deposited Lucius in the chair next to Narcissa, then Bartleby waved them outside and shut the door with his wand.

Lucius slumped in the chair, breathing slowly, eyes sliding to the floor.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” said Bartleby, leaning forward on his desk. “How are you feeling?”

Lucius’ eyes flicked upward for a split second, full of hate.

Bartleby continued unshaken. “Is your new private cell an improvement? You have Granger here to thank for that, and your external food deliveries. I do hope you enjoyed the vintage chardonnay I sent you.”

Now those eyes landed on Hermione, and she shuddered; the effect was like being seen by a Dementor. But it was only for a second until his eyes slid back to the floor.

“Lucius,” Narcissa breathed, sliding her arm around his frail one. She bent to his ear and whispered something indiscernible. Lucius sat up straighter with great effort and fixed Bartleby with a glare.

“It’s been years, you fat sonofabitch,” he said, his voice gruff and ragged like he hadn’t used it in a while. “I’ve been in Azkaban for years now.”

“A year and a half,” Draco corrected him under his breath.

Lucius didn’t hear him. “When are you going to get me out?”

Bartleby folded his hands and smiled in what was supposed to be a calming way. “As soon as possible, my dear Mr. Malfoy. You know the Ministry. Dragging their heels as always. We first need to set a trial date.”

“But your case is strong, dear, isn’t it,” piped up Narcissa, her big brown eyes looking anxiously at her husband.

Lucius laughed or spat; it wasn’t clear which. “No, it isn’t.”

“Come now, don’t talk like that.” Narcissa patted his arm anxiously. “We’re getting you the best legal defense money can buy, aren’t we, Bartleby? Everyone’s working double time to get you justice.”

“Justice!?” Lucius’ eyes burst open and his voice loud for a moment, then he was quiet and weak once more.

“Yes, justice,” said Narcissa gently. “You’re not guilty of what they’re charging you with.”

Hermione’s eyes found their way to Draco, who was busy dragging the edge of his shoe along the lines of the tiles. He looked up at her briefly and shot an anguished look in the direction of his parents. Hermione gave him the tiniest sympathetic nod.

“They’re going to take my soul,” Lucius was saying now, his breathing labored. “They’re going to let my body go, but me, _I,_ I’m going to be in there, inside one of them…”

“Come now, there’s no magical consensus on what happens to the soul after a Dementor’s Kiss,” said Bartleby, his tone a bit too upbeat. Lucius shot him the nastiest look. 

“Can we go over what arguments the prosecution may have?” Narcissa cut in, with an anxious look at her husband. “And then we can start working on how to counter them?”

Bartleby smiled at her. “An excellent idea. If I were the prosecution, I would be working on a group charge. I would attempt to prove that you had full awareness of the Dark Lord’s cause at the time you joined the Death Eaters, and then argue that under the precedents concerning terrorist groups, you are partially culpable for every action your leader or any of your comrades took—including the actions you are on trial for.”

“But that was twenty years ago!” Narcissa burst out, looking around the room for sympathy. “He took the mark when he was sixteen! He was one of the first volunteers; it was hardly a movement back then. How on _earth_ could any of us have known what was going to happen––”

Bartleby waved a hand at her to stop. “Granger, will you please strike that from the record,” he muttered to Hermione out of the side of his mouth.

“But––”

“Strike it.”

Feeling uneasy, Hermione obeyed him and used her wand to peel off the ink of the last few sentences and pour it back into the ink bottle.

“Now,” said Bartleby, settling back into his desk, “If the prosecution goes in that direction, we’ve got very little left to stand on. Which is why we’ve got to argue that yes, you may have had awareness during the _First_ Wizarding War, but you were very much conscripted into the _Second.”_

Draco made an audible noise of derision. Narcissa smacked him in the arm to be quiet.

“Go on,” said Lucius, after a long moment.

“Now, this will rely on you having had a change of heart,” said Bartleby. “Mrs. Malfoy, is there any moment you can recall where your husband expressed doubts to you? A point where he seemed disillusioned with the cause, but mentioned feeling trapped into service?”

“Yes, at the Battle,” said Narcissa, sitting up straighter. “We both gave up at that point. The only thing we cared for was our son––”

Bartleby smiled sadly. “As lovely as that is, it occurred after the period where he is being charged. Was there any moment _before_ the battle, and specifically before the timeframe where the Dark Lord was staying in your home? Most of the charges date from that point.”

Narcissa was quiet.

“A moment when he displayed any kind of animosity toward the Dark Lord?” Bartleby tried again. “It doesn’t have to be verbally. Did he agree with someone else’s words against him? Did he make a face when his name was mentioned?”

Narcissa still didn’t answer.

“Anything?”

“He thought it was an honor,” Draco cut in, his jaw set. “He was excited about it. He made the house-elves clean the manor for him. He put out the best china.”

“Draco, why don’t you step outside,” said Narcissa, her voice dangerously calm.

Draco sat firm for a moment, then got up and left, slamming the door behind him.

Narcissa smiled at Bartleby. She looked exhausted. “Children,” she said, trying to shrug casually. 

“I did a lot of good for society between the wars,” said Lucius. “We could argue for mercy on those grounds. I donated a great deal of money to scholastic and sports programs at Hogwarts. I served on the board of governors for years. I helped back legislation at the Ministry for better trade protections and initiatives to keep Muggles safe and segregated from Wizard-kind.”

“The prosecution will say you continuously abused your positions and wealth to further a genocidal cause,” said Bartleby.

“And what of the Ministry abuses!” He cried out, his face taut like a mask. “They lumped everyone together, the guilty and those just in the wrong place, and stuffed us all into Azkaban, where––”

“The Minister ensured the conditions were humane,” said Bartleby evenly, not even looking up from the notes he was scratching with his quill.

Lucius’ voice simmered with quiet fury. “You know of what I speak, Bartleby.” The barrister shifted a little in his seat. “Would you like me to tell _that_ story for the courtroom reporters?”

Bartleby capped his ink pot with a little more force than was necessary and laid down his quill. “The Minister ensured the conditions were humane,” he said again, his voice stretched thin. “You remember our conversation.”

Lucius blanched. Narcissa put a hand on his arm to calm him. Her hand was shaking and he flinched when she touched him.

“Should we talk again another day?” Bartleby leaned back in his chair and nodded. “You seem a little distressed. Perhaps we had better reschedule for another day.”

“No,” said Lucius, shrinking into his chair. “Please, I’ve got two hours away from the Dementors, I need my two hours away…”

Bartleby looked around the office and frowned. “Very well. Granger, if you could keep an eye on him? Mrs. Malfoy, I’d like a word with you and your son outside.” 

Hermione nodded obediently, her spine prickling at the prospect. Lucius, slumped over in the chair, had dropped his shoulders in relief and it seemed he might drift off to sleep. 

Bartleby and Narcissa left the room, and Hermione occupied herself by correcting the notes she had just taken. 

Several minutes dragged by, and Bartleby still hadn’t come back. She wondered idly what Bartleby really thought of Lucius, and of his chances in court. Lucius seemed barely interested in constructing his own defense. Perhaps it was the hopelessness living with the Dementors gave you? Maybe that was why the Ministry liked to hold pre-trial prisoners in Azkaban. 

Lucius was sitting in the middle of the room still, slouched over, dingy white robes clinging loosely to his bony frame, examining the worn tiling on the floor.

Hermione gingerly set down her quill. She watched him carefully for a moment, then tried to push aside her feelings of repulsion.

“What happened in Azkaban?” She asked, curiosity overcoming her. 

Lucius jerked around to look at her, sharp living eyes in a face so gaunt it was beginning to look like a wax death mask. His lip curled in an unpleasant smirk. “Your precious Auror Department happened.”

Hermione shivered a little under her dress robes, but she steadied herself. “And what did they do?”

Lucius gave a hollow chuckle. “Wouldn’t you love to know.”

“I would, actually,” said Hermione, firmness coming back into her voice. She shifted the parchment with her hand. “If I’m to be your legal counsel.”

Lucius’ smirk widened. He looked back at the floor. “Look at you, Miss ‘I’m your legal counsel.’ Draco always complained about you, you know. How smart you were. How pretty. How he would have been top of his class, school champion, if it weren’t for…well.”

The way Lucius was grinning at the grimy green and blue ceramics made Hermione’s stomach churn.

“I told him it wouldn’t last. You might be making it now, but you wouldn’t make it a minute once they let you out of Hogwarts. That’s what always happens; they never rise very far, do they, people like you. Some even go home to their filthy families and take up their old ways.” He looked at her again, his eyes piercing.

She met them, and held them in an iron grip; her breath was shallow and tense and she didn’t dare show weakness.

His shoulders drooped and he laughed and broke away to look up at the ceiling. “And now you’re my legal counsel. The girl who should have been shunted right out of the Ministry, now taking my son’s place in law school classes, taking a job that would rightfully have been his…You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you.”

“Better than you,” said Hermione icily. She was gripping the edge of the desk.

Lucius looked back at her, amused. “That you have,” he said. “That you have.”

She glared at him, disgusted. “So are you going to tell me what happened in Azkaban? Or would you prefer to just wallow there, clutching the remnants of your pride?”

He arched a thin white eyebrow, looking her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. Then he spun around to face her fully, leaning back, knitting his long fingers together. “After the battle, they rounded up all the Death Eaters,” he said, affecting a business-like tone. “As well as everyone who helped them. There were Muggles in the mix––Dolohov had taken a few for slaves, but the Ministry charged them with conspiracy and put them in Azkaban anyway. The Minister, if you were paying any attention, took control with a platform of justice––just trials, humane holding quarters, presumption of innocence. The Wizarding Parliament passed a bill banning Dementors from returning to Azkaban and he signed it.”

“I remember,” said Hermione. She recalled the blazing headlines with Kingsley’s face; the legal battles he had to go through; how proudly and firmly he had stood his ground.

“The Aurors were afraid of us,” Lucius continued. “That was the first abuse. They were supposed to keep a guard on us, but without the Dementors we had the energy to move about. They shackled us to our cells and illegally sedated us with sleeping potions and, when they didn’t have enough evidence to charge us with a crime, they’d spike it with Veritaserum.”

“No,” Hermione breathed.

Lucius nodded like he was sharing an especially juicy secret. “Oh, yes. And that wasn’t all.”

His voice dropped away, leaving the room quiet. Hermione’s breathing sounded too loud all of a sudden. She could hear magical fans whirring in the room next door; hear the clanging of the lift in the distance.

“Kingsley was so proud of his little crusade for the moral high ground,” Lucius continued at last, but his voice was lower now and his eyes darted to the door. “But when he came to Azkaban, he questioned my son himself. Draco was helpless––chained, drunk on sedatives like the rest of us until he couldn’t move, enough Veritaserum in him to last him a week––”

Hermione gasped. “What was Draco doing in Azkaban? He was under house arrest!”

Lucius shook his head. He was still smiling, but she was starting to realize his smiles had nothing to do with whether or not he was pleased. “No one was under house arrest. They didn’t have enough Aurors.”

“But I saw the pictures—”

“Pictures lie.” Lucius’ skin was all tight now around his lips. “He was there in the cell with me, there for two months, and my wife was down the hall.”

Hermione repressed a shudder.

“So Kinglsey arrived,” said Lucius, picking up where he had left off. “And he bent down and questioned Draco right where he sat. Got enough names out of him to stuff the ward until there were four to a cell.”

Hermione shivered. Kingsley must have been desperate––there was lots of pressure at the time to take all the Death Eaters off the street.

“Do you know why they finally started hiring more Aurors?” Lucius asked huskily, looking at her from lidded eyes. “Aurors are supposed to go through years of training. Did you ever wonder what happened to make them start rushing people through––people like your friends, damaged kids who hadn’t even graduated Hogwarts?”

Hermione shook her head.

“The Dementors came back.” Lucius rolled his head back, closed his eyes. “There were none in the prison when we got there. They came back one night, swooped in, came through all the cells–– _into_ the cells. And our Auror guards?” He laughed coldly. “They had enough happy memories to shield them for about a minute. And then they fled. One of them fell. They feed, you know.” Lucius looked down at his hands. “The Aurors were gone for two weeks. One of their number had his soul taken on the way out, and he was the only guard left, wandering the halls like a shadow until one day he threw himself off the cliff. Those prisoners you heard about, the ones who died from their battle wounds?”

Hermione swallowed uneasily.

Lucius shook his head. “They were the ones kissed. Dolohov. Nott. There was nothing to keep them away. No one had a wand; the Dementors were out of control. I spent weeks wondering if Narcissa…” He stopped, shaking, for a moment. He took a deep breath. “The Aurors finally came in; got the Dementors out of the cells and kept them to the halls the way it used to be. They took the people they were lying about having under house arrest and they finally took them home. But justice?” He shook his head, gazing at the floor with the utmost derision. “They killed the ones the Dementors had kissed, rather than let the Wizengamot find out. There was no justice. They told my son they would drop the charges if he would keep his mouth shut forever about what happened in Azkaban. They told me if I told anyone they’d turn a blind eye if a Dementor decided to creep into my cell. They told Narcissa she’ll go back if she says so much as a whisper.” His shoulders were shaking.

There was a long pause. “So why are you telling me?” Hermione asked finally, her voice feeling scratchy in her throat.

Lucius looked up at her, and the smirk was dancing on his lips again. “Because you’re my legal counsel.”

Hermione bit her lip. That she was. As much as she hated it––and until she could find a way to get out of it cleanly––that she was.

Bartleby came back eventually and ordered Hermione out of the room, wanting to speak to his client alone. She went, walking down the hall to the lobby, feeling distant. She kept imagining what Lucius had told her, about how Draco had been illegally held in Azkaban. 

It was wartime; Kingsley had had a war to end. All was fair in war, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like he had tortured the information out of him…but she still felt sick to her stomach, especially when she got to the lobby and Draco was there in the corner, sitting at the very edge of the couch, quietly doing nothing. Part of her wanted to go to him, ask him if it was true or if the story was another one of his father’s tricks, but when she got to him her nerve failed her. 

He looked up when he saw her. “I don’t even know what to do,” he said, with a rueful, despairing laugh. “He’s bleeding us dry. It’s costing us a fortune to run this case. And he hasn’t even got a case. He can’t even pretend, for ten minutes…” 

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione. “I know Bartleby’s pushing to get a date set. It’ll be over soon.” 

“I wouldn’t care if my mother weren’t so distraught over it,” said Draco, resting his chin on his hand. “She’s in denial, she can’t accept that he won’t win. And we have all these family portraits in the house, and of course she went and told them why he’s been gone from the house, and now my grandmother’s portrait keeps following me from room to room and screeching about how I’m a disgrace for not bailing him out of prison. He doesn’t _have_ a bail set. He’s too dangerous.” 

“That sounds miserable,” said Hermione. “Have you considered getting your own room somewhere?” 

He looked up, and his expression said he hadn’t. But then his face fell again. “It would crush Mother.” 

Narcissa Malfoy swept out of Bartleby’s office then, fire in her step, her nose in the air. “Draco, we’re leaving,” she proclaimed. 

Draco stood up to take her arm on the way out. 

Hermione watched them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!! I was looking back through my deleted scenes folder for this story from this year and I found out I've jettisoned 120 pages of this fic from different versions of chapters. So maybe I'm taking it a little too seriously? Lol. I was hoping to post more today but I'm on version five of the next set of chapters (literally) and while I know where I'm going I keep having new ideas for how to get there--but I do think the fifth time's the charm! Anyhow, one of my New Year's resolutions is to finish this thing. So stay tuned!


	32. Mounting Suspicions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update! And if all goes to plan I'll have another, longer chapter posted this weekend :)

The man Bartleby and Kingsley had argued about, Horton Milbert, arrived the next day. It was not a pleasant introduction. 

Milbert was Bartleby’s once-and-future solicitor, a gangly, looming man with a sharp nose and a face that didn’t know how to make a smile. 

“So you’re the new paralegal, eh?” Were his first words to Hermione as he snapped open his briefcase in his new office, which used to be Ele’s. “Bartleby told me you’re underqualified.” 

She flushed in anger. “I passed the First Year Criminal Law exam without any instruction,” she retorted. 

Milbert raised an eyebrow as he lazily allowed parchment to spill across his desk. “Apparently you’re shit at inheritance law. Not to worry, inheritances are my spec- _ial_ -ity. I’ll take you under my wing.” 

There was no place she would like less to be, she thought, rage quivering in her as she stepped out to deliver poor Ele one of the last of her things. Bartleby had unceremoniously dumped Ele out of her office to make room for Milbert, and Hermione and Matthew had spent the morning trying to help her turn a hall closet into something approaching an office. 

But unfortunately, Milbert was serious. He continued to call her in and gift her with reams of inheritance and property work, nitpicking her every move. He began to send Hermione swarms of paper airplanes every time he found a mistake in her work. She would hide behind the closed door of her office, clenching her fists until her nails dug into her palms, and still the damned things would bump insistently against the door until she opened them to read about her flaws. 

If there was one thing Milbert was especially good at, it was serving as a buffer between Hermione and Bartleby. His office was on the way to Bartleby’s, and after one too many times trying to go deliver something to Bartleby and getting pulled in to talk to Milbert instead, Hermione started to think it might be deliberate. 

Bartleby was acting even more strangely than usual. She would interact with him only in meetings for the Malfoy case and preparing filings for the new Umbridge case, but there was some new case he had taken on that he wasn’t letting her know anything about. She didn’t even know if it was a criminal case or a property case—she knew of it only in the forms of meetings she wasn’t invited to and boxes of paperwork the others wouldn’t let her open. 

She tried to bring it up with Matthew once, because his role had suddenly grown beyond a receptionist and he was getting called back to Bartleby’s office with increasing frequency. 

“It’s an Ethical Wall,” he said, his eyes shifting rapidly and refusing to make direct contact with her. “I can’t speak of it.” 

An Ethical Wall…she knew this was a practice which allowed law firms to take on a case when an employee had a conflict of interest, by preventing the flow of any information about the case to that employee. But Bartleby had just ordered her to read through Narcissa Malfoy’s diary. He didn’t seem to be big on avoiding conflicts of interest. 

There was another thing that was bothering her. Something seemed very familiar about Milbert, but she couldn’t quite place it. He had been living in France for the past several years; she couldn’t have met him before. But there was something about the way he moved. He just…felt familiar.

“Is it because he looks like Snape?” Percy said, barely looking up from his stack of cauldron permits. She had documents to request from Percy’s office, and had decided to question him while she was at it. 

“What? No,” she said. 

“Because he looks like Snape,” said Percy, impatiently stabbing the end of his quill into a bottle of ink that had about run dry. He yanked open his drawer and rummaged about for a new bottle. “You don’t see it? The greasy hair? The nose?” 

“Yes, but…hardly,” said Hermione. “You think he’s related to Snape?” 

“What? No.” Percy uncorked the new ink bottle and dabbed his quill into it, tapping the rim to shake off the excess ink. “The Milberts are an old wizarding family. They’ve got nothing to do with the Princes.” 

“Then what is it?” Hermione leaned on the edge of his desk, frustrated. “I swear I think I’ve met this man before, but I _haven’t.”_

“It might be something subconscious.” Percy waved his quill in the air. “You didn’t like Snape. Maybe that’s prejudiced you against Milbert.” 

Hermione really didn’t think that was it, but then again, she barely had time to think about anything at all these days. 

Time swept by in a haze of late nights and early mornings and client meetings where Lucius Malfoy seemed smaller and more haggard and skeletal every time he came into the office. With Harry and Ginny still off in France, Hermione’s social life dwindled down to the occasional drink with Matthew and Ele when Milbert was out of the office, where they would vent in hushed and heated voices about their bosses before scrambling to get back to work. She got drinks with Luna once––a supremely awkward experience at a gravity bar, a magical lounge where everyone was seated on the ceiling––but came into the office and received a roundabout scolding from Milbert the next morning, who had apparently spent the evening looking for her to finish off some urgent work. So she didn’t go out again. 

And then it was almost time for Magical Law School to start, and Hermione scheduled time with Bartleby to talk about working part time instead so she would be able to study. 

She pushed open the door and Milbert was inside. Her heart plummeted and she almost turned to leave, but Bartleby had already seen her. 

“Granger! Come in.” He waved her over. He was sucking down another brandy. 

“Stop drinking, it’s unprofessional,” snarled Milbert from the corner, where he was making sense of a mountain of parchment. 

Bartleby made a rude hand gesture at Milbert behind his back and winked at Hermione. “What brings you in?” 

She took a seat, sparing a nervous glance for Milbert. “Well, sir, as you know, Magical Law School is beginning soon.” 

Milbert snorted audibly from the corner. “As it does every year.” 

Hermione pretended to ignore him. “We talked about this a while ago, but now that the summer is over, I’d like to change to a part-time position, as I’ll need the time for studying.” 

“Part time?” Bartleby glanced up, his eyebrows knitted together. “Part time? It’s almost busy season. We’ve practically set a date for the Malfoy trial. We’ve just won the Umbridge prosecution. I can’t have you part time.” 

“Well, I already work about double a full-time schedule,” said Hermione patiently. She had expected this part. “In that case, I’d like to work a restricted full-time schedule. Exactly forty hours. It would leave me at least some time to study.” 

“The more school she has, the more you’ll have to pay her,” muttered Milbert from the corner. 

Hermione clenched her fist next to her knee, imagining it was around her wand. 

Bartleby took another sip of brandy. “Don’t be ridiculous, Horton. Of course we want her with a law degree.” He turned to Hermione. “All right. You can feel free to leave the office in time for your classes.” 

“And my expected hours?” 

Bartleby huffed. “Work it out as best you can, will you? Horton here gets everything done on a ridiculously abbreviated schedule. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him.” 

Hermione and Milbert shared a look of mutual disdain in which they wordlessly agreed to never learn anything from one another. 

“But yes, go to law school,” said Bartleby, pulling his paperwork back toward him. “At least it’ll make you better on the inheritance cases.” 

So at five pm the next Monday Hermione packed up her satchel with brand-new parchment and textbooks and slipped out of the office to head upstairs for her first Magical Law School class.


	33. Tort Law and Tormentors

Hermione started to breathe a little easier as soon as she came into the large study lounge and found the classroom set aside for Tort Law 101. She entered into a paneled wood room with beat up wood desks that reminded her of the ones at Hogwarts. She slid into one of the benches and took out her new quill and set her new inkpot in the inkwell. She was early and it gave her the chance to just soak in the creamy feeling of her new roll of parchment, to revel in the delicacy of her very best handwriting as she jotted her name and the date across the top of the parchment. 

The door opened and other students began filing in, and she barely looked up, trying to just put the thought of work and of Milbert’s eternally unsatisfied scowl temporarily out of her mind. 

There was a thud that shook the bench next to her as someone sat down. 

“Hey, Granger.” 

She turned and barely took in the sleek blond head before she shrieked and threw her arms around him. 

“Draco! You made it into law school!” 

He laughed uneasily and untangled himself from her arms. “Don’t get too excited, Hermione. Your little pep talk got to me.” 

“I’m so glad you’re going to go for it,” said Hermione, feeling flooded with warmth. “I’m so glad you’re not going to be sitting in a basement doing paperwork for clients who never see you.” 

“That’s not off the table yet,” said Draco jokingly, pulling out his own new set of parchment. “How’s work?” 

Hermione sighed heavily. “Miserable.” 

“Milbert still a pill?” Draco had met Milbert once or twice, on the last couple of occasions Lucius had been in for a meeting and brought his family. Lately Lucius had been requesting private meetings, and last time Hermione hadn’t even been brought in to take notes. 

“You know it.” 

The professor swept in then, a sharp-looking woman called Akhtar, and launched directly into definitions of negligence and malfeasance and delict and tortfeasors and injured parties. Her teaching style was swift and fast-paced, but Hermione hadn’t expected the mere feeling of being in a classroom to be quite as calming as she was finding it. It was like a homecoming. The class was over far too quickly. 

“I shan’t be able to assign you much homework, unfortunately,” said Akhtar, her purple robes falling majestically around her. “When I took this course, Magical Law School proceeded at a rigorous pace and every student was given a time turner to allow for ample studying time. The Ministry’s store of time turners has since been destroyed. Therefore, I would encourage you to make the most of your designated study hall hours and carve out time in your lives to commit this material to memory.” 

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Draco muttered under his breath as they packed up their bags to leave. “With the time turners?” 

“How did you know?” 

“My father,” said Draco, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. 

“Well, yes,” said Hermione, “he might have noticed what he was smashing when I stupefied him right into the storage cabinet in between his hurling curses at me.” 

Draco snorted, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I’d’ve liked to have seen that.” 

Hermione paused and looked at him. He looked lighter than she’d ever seen him, in the way he carried himself at least; less tightly-wound. “You really don’t worship him anymore, do you.” 

The old tightness came back for a millisecond—the straightening of the back, the clenching of the jaw, the loss of the smile. And then it was gone again. “No, I’ve quit,” said Draco. “After you.” He waved her into the next classroom. 

The next class––Contracts––sped by far too quickly. In fact, the pace was so quick, and Hermione was so intent on trying to soak in the old school feeling and get rid of the work feeling, that she barely managed to keep up and was quite sure she missed a few important points. 

She said as much to Draco as they were leaving. 

“I can help you review,” said Draco. “I took notes with the new Quick Quotes Study Edition quill. It only captures the highlights.” 

Hermione looked at him in dismay. “You’ll never learn like that. You’ve got to write it down yourself, that locks it in better.” 

“Well, now I’ve got a transcript of what you missed and you haven’t,” said Draco lightly. “C’mon. Let’s study together, I’ll let you copy it.” 

Hermione stopped, looking around at the study lounge. It was filled with couches and armchairs and rugs and desks and it looked simply glorious––from the two fireplaces casting soft flickering light to the candles that were spaced just well enough to keep each reading area well lit. It was also full to the brim of students from a variety of different graduate courses, from Magical Accounting to the Magical Pastry students working on a flan in the corner kitchenette, and there wasn’t a space to be seen. There were already whole groups sitting on the floor. 

“I’d love to,” she said, meaning it. Having only Matthew and Ele for her social life had been draining, to say the least. “But I’d better get back down to the office for a bit. It seems a bit crowded now.” 

“We could study later,” said Draco anxiously. “I bet this’ll empty out. I could meet you here in,” he glanced at his pocket watch, “three hours?” 

She looked at him, then let her face relax into a smile. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you then.” 

* * *

Three hours later, Hermione was stomping back up to the study lounge, desperately needing an escape from her normal routine. Draco had been right; the lounge was deserted except for him. 

Draco looked up to welcome her, and his expression immediately changed to one of concern. “What’s the matter?” 

“I hate Milbert!” She threw herself dramatically onto the couch, fist clenched. “I hate him so much, I just want to _scream—”_

“Then scream,” said Draco. He picked up a throw pillow and launched it at her face. 

She caught it inches away. “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“Scream into it,” he advised, slouching into one of the fluffier armchairs. “What, you’ve never screamed into a pillow before?” 

“Course I have.” Hermione threw it back at him and he knocked it away with his forearm. “I was kidding.” 

Draco shrugged. “Suit yourself. What’s he done now?” 

“Started sending me notes outside the office,” said Hermione. “Have I told you he’s been charming paper airplanes to inform me every time I’ve done something imperfectly?” 

“God, that’s obnoxious,” said Draco. 

“Yeah, and before it was only while we were at work, right? So at least it was _limited._ But this afternoon he comes to me himself waving this parchment, and he’s like,” Hermione screwed up her face and twisted her voice into the most egregious, snivelling imitation of Milbert she could muster, “Granger, this is _unacc_ -ept- _able._ You’ve drafted a will on the two-weight parchment, when it is _specific_ -ally _us_ -ually written on the three-weight? Can you really not perform unless you are _constantly_ reminded and kept under the _closest_ supervision?” 

Draco grimaced. “Ugh.” 

“So then,” said Hermione, who was just getting started, “So _then,_ I pop off to my flat for a late supper, and what comes knocking on my door but a magical paper airplane?? It’s him, he’s written a note with a to-do list reminding me of everything he wants me to have done before he’s in at eight tomorrow, and he’s timed it to send to me, _at home.”_

“That’s terrible!” Draco exclaimed. 

Hermione nodded. “And the worst of it is, I live in a Muggle flat. The worst of it is, he’s sending me charmed magical objects, _to a Muggle flat_ ––he could get me in trouble with the International Statute of Secrecy!” 

“You should tell him,” said Draco. 

“Hah,” said Hermione. “I will. I absolutely will. Eight am sharp tomorrow. Now listen here, Milbert, you greasy-haired twat––” 

There was a fluttering noise in the hall, and Hermione raised her eyes in horror as in sailed a charmed paper airplane. 

“Oh god, he’s sent me another one. Here, give me that pillow––” 

Draco tossed it to her and she screamed into the satin tasseled cushion. 

“I can’t, I just _can’t,_ it’s bad enough when it’s at work—” she said as soon as she came up for air, hugging the pillow to her chest as if it would shield her from the incoming paper airplane. 

Draco calmly incinerated the vessel of doom with a flick of his wand just before it got to her; it rained down on the couch in a few bits of ash. 

“What––” she stared. 

Draco tucked his wand back in his sleeve. “Don’t read them outside work hours. It’s utterly inappropriate he’s doing this to you. It’s never been urgent, has it?” 

Hermione shook her head. “No, just nitpicking about contracts––”

“Then don’t accept the messages outside work hours. And certainly not during our study time.” He pulled out his notes from earlier. “So what did you think, so far?” 

She looked around cautiously, still on edge from Milbert’s destroyed message. “I loved it,” she said. “It was so calming. Hogwarts was such a happy place for me.” 

Draco laughed lightly. “I meant of the material.” 

“Oh, right.” They dove in together to a discussion of torts and contracts. Draco helped her untangle some of the finer points and then let her be while they both read their assigned chapters. 

After a while she looked up, then looked down, then looked up again, biting her lip. She couldn’t get the things Lucius had told her out of her head. Was Draco’s new attitude a product of the way he’d been treated? Had he seen the light because he’d hit rock bottom? 

He noticed her looking and turned from his notes, his face a gentle question mark, waiting. 

She swallowed and figured she may as well ask––he didn’t have to answer. “Can I ask you a personal question?” 

The conflicted look that crossed his face made her think the answer would be no, but then he nodded. Hesitantly. 

“It’s a bit work related,” she said slowly. “It’s something your father told me.” 

He looked up at her sharply. “What did he say?” 

Hermione bit her lip and squeezed the crumpled parchment in her hand. “He said you were in Azkaban.” 

“That’s not true.” 

She looked at him—he’d answered too fast. He looked tense. “He said you were never under house arrest,” she continued slowly. “He said the Auror office was understaffed. He said they kept everyone in Azkaban. He said they held you down and took your memories against your will.” 

Draco shook his head. “That didn’t happen. He was lying to you. Don’t you know my father at all? He was just trying to get your sympathy.” His voice sounded clipped and angry. 

Hermione let out a long, slow breath. That sounded about right, and she would have just left it there, if it hadn’t been for the night the Ministry had erased Ron’s memory, or when Kingsley behaved so differently the next day, and all the strange things going on. “Did it really not happen? Or did you just forget?” 

His brows knitted into a frown. “Forget?” 

She bit her lip. “I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore. I don’t know if you’re you; I don’t know if Ron’s Ron; my parents definitely aren’t my parents anymore.” 

Draco frowned. “They’re still your parents. Even when someone’s gone—” 

She shook her head. “They wouldn’t know me if they saw me.” 

He set down his book and leaned closer to her. There was something tender in his face. “Of course they would. The people who die, they never really leave us—”

Her eyes burst open in shock and fell on him. “Die? They’re not—they’re not dead, Draco—” 

He sat back. “They’re not?” 

She shook her head so hard bits of her hair whipped her in the face. “No, of course not! Why—what gave you that idea?” 

Draco looked shocked. “I mean, it’s just the way you talk about them, you always sounded so sad, and you’re always talking about it like someone did it, and I just figured—” 

“No.” She looked down at her lap, a horrible hollow feeling in her chest. Was that what she’d done to them? Given up so completely that people thought they had died? “They’re alive. But they’re not...the same, anymore.” 

The couch shifted under her as he sat down next to her, gingerly eying her. 

“What happened?” He asked softly. 

Hermione bit her lip. “I...promise you won’t tell anyone, okay? Not that it’s a secret—” 

“I promise.” His voice cut through hers at once. 

She took a deep breath. “Okay.” So she explained, explained about their memories, and why she did it, and how it happened at a time when she didn’t really have hope for the future, and now that the future had come it was stretching in front of her like an awful eternity. 

Draco listened, quietly, not saying a word. 

She looked up at him when she was finished, suddenly caring about his reaction. His face was still; thoughtful. 

“I guess you’re right,” he said, finally, after a long minute of silence. “I guess if something... _had_ happened to you...it would have been for the best.” 

“Yeah.” Her lip was trembling. “But that’s the thing. It didn’t happen. I’m fine, and they have no idea who I am.” 

He didn’t seem to know what to say. 

She turned away, trying to hide her face. 

“May I ask what happened to Ron?” 

She turned back. “I’m sorry?” 

He looked a bit embarrassed. “It’s just, you mentioned Ron in the same sentence. I don’t mean to pry, but did something...happen to Ron? Is that why you broke up?” 

Hermione sat back onto the couch, staring into space. 

“I’m sorry,” said Draco after a moment. “We can drop it, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t tell him, couldn’t break the promises she had made to Harry, not even when she was starting to feel like she trusted the young man next to her. So she didn’t say anything, just kind of awkwardly sat there. After a minute she realized he wasn’t going to press the subject, he’d gone back to checking over his notes. 

She tried to get back to studying on her end as well, but she wasn’t really taking in the words she was reading. 

Then Draco’s quill stopped its scratching and he laid it down, looking at his shoes. 

“I wasn’t entirely truthful before,” he said after a minute, his voice quiet. “I do remember the things my father told you.” 

Her heart skipped a beat. “So you were in Azkaban?” 

He nodded. 

“Oh, Draco—” 

He cut her off. “But he didn’t tell you everything.” 

She waited. 

He ran the side of his shoe along the edge of one of the tiles, tracing its lines. Finally, he opened his mouth again. “I doubt he told you...well, for starters, what hell it was being trapped in there with him. In the same cell. Twenty-four hours a day.” 

Hermione could only stare at him, listening. 

“He...” Draco stopped, and shook his head, and started again. “He kept trying to keep my spirits up, encourage me. But the things he said to do it...it all sounded so disgusting, so hollow, and all I could think was that these were the ideas that landed us there. That he landed us there. Then the dementors came, and...” Draco shuddered and his voice trailed off. 

There was a cold draft in the room, and in the sudden quiet she could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. 

“The Ministry did come. He was right about that, what he told you. It was forced; I was...restrained; they knew I was a weak Occlumens and they came to take what I knew, whether I was willing or not.” 

He looked away. “But it wasn’t all Veritaserum, Hermione. I would have told them. I wanted out; I hated everything I had become, everything my life stood for, I wanted them to dismantle it, get rid of it...” he shook his head. “My father was yelling for hours after. He’d call me a hero, then a coward; he’d try to reassure me and tell me we’d get out and retake the world for purebloods and then he’d curse me and say none of this would have happened if I’d just been man enough to kill Dumbledore.” 

“No…” She breathed. 

“He just keeps acting like we’re victims!” Draco burst out, hitting the nearest pillow with his wrist. “But did he tell you the things he said to me, to try and keep me happy when the Dementors came? The things he told me to be proud of? He’s over there, gazing lovingly at his Dark Mark––” Draco choked on his words. “I’m sorry. It just makes me…it makes me _hate_ him…” 

“Don’t be,” said Hermione. “That’s awful.” She picked at her robes for moment. “I still can’t believe Kingsley would take your memories from you by force. I’ve always looked up to him, but to compromise someone like that, take advantage of them…” 

“No,” said Draco, a bit harshly. “Don’t you get it? Kingsley wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was giving me a way out.”

“A way out?” She was confused. 

He nodded, needing to pause a moment to collect himself. “I…I think. He knew I couldn’t tell him, not with my father there.” 

“He could have had you taken somewhere else,” said Hermione. “You could have still said you were forced, your family would have believed you…” 

“That’s true,” he said, and there was an anguished look in his eyes now. “That’s true. But…” He turned and looked at her, his gaze begging her to understand. “Giving up those names is the only reason I got out. It’s the only reason McGonagall let me back to Hogwarts. It’s the only reason I have any kind of future at all. And he told them I did it because I wanted to, and he let my family believe otherwise.” 

He looked down at his hands, scraped one against the other. “I tell myself I would have told him everything freely if he’d just asked me, and never mind if they never speak to me again. I tell myself, I swear it, I would have, I would have done it––” But he looked at her and she could see it in his eyes, see that he didn’t believe his words at all. 

“But would you?” She whispered softly. 

He couldn’t speak; his chest rose as if he were drawing breath to answer but his lips locked the words in. She could see it in his eyes, though, the tangle—see the dreadful, despairing _no_ written all across his features. And with it, struggling, strangling, the passionate desire for a different answer. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally, then cast his eyes down. 

She didn’t say anything. 

“But that’s why I have to do it,” he said, raising his head, and there was fire in his eyes again. “That’s why I have to do something, something big, something meaningful, something to dismantle what I helped build. I have to prove I _can.”_

“I believe you,” she said. “You could, and you can. You will. You have it in you.” 

“You’ll tell me when you find something, won’t you?” His eyes, when he looked up, were bright with hope, fixed on her. His hopes came out in a tumble of words. “You’re Hermione Granger, you’ll find something to investigate, something to fight. And you don’t have to tell me what it is, just tell me what I can do—whatever it is, I’ll do it. I trust you.” 

She nodded, a bit stiffly. “I can do that.” She slumped a little. “I don’t know what that will be, still, but...I will. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. He looked so small all of a sudden, curled up in the couch cushions; sad and so very young. Like her. 

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” she said. 

He shook his head. “Don’t be. You were hurt more. You lost more, gave up more, and it...it didn’t have to happen. You shouldn’t have scars on your arm. You gave it all up just to do the right thing. But everything ‘bad’ that happened to me was just good people trying to get me to stand up for once in my life.” 

“I’m still sorry.” She meant it. 

“I’m…a lot more sorry.” He hung his head again, his face grave, and they sat there in somber silence until she couldn’t take it anymore and found she was smiling in spite of herself. 

“You win,” she said. 

“What? I win what?” He looked at her earnestly. 

“The regret contest,” she said, a little smile playing across her lips. “You can be more sorry about things than I am. You win. You beat me.” 

His face was frozen for a moment, then softened into a smile. “I beat Hermione Granger at something,” he said, chuckling. “What a watershed moment.” 

“Should’ve learned to pick your battles sooner,” she said, her voice gentle and teasing. “Potions? I’m way too good. Charms? Not a chance. But regret…” she shrugged. “I just didn’t have the training for it.” 

“Well, I had loads of preparation,” he said, and she was relieved to see he was playing along. “I was trained since birth, basically. You never stood a chance.” 

She cocked an eyebrow, amused. “Hey, I’m still going to trounce you at law school.” 

He grinned at her. “I wouldn’t expect any less.” 

The air felt thicker. She was all of a sudden keenly aware that they were sharing a couch, that barely any space separated them. He was within arms length, more or less; if she reached out she might just touch him…or if he reached out to her? The thought frightened her, it was so new. She quickly cut the tension. 

“Say, you know Milbert?” 

Draco looked at her. “Horton Milbert? As in that solicitor you work with?” 

She nodded. 

“Lanky, greasy-haired, sharp nose?” He drew a line above his face to demonstrate. “Sends you obnoxious charmed paper airplanes? Been in all my father’s recent meetings? Yeah, I know him. Why?” 

“Well, I know you know him. About the level I do. But I was wondering...” she trailed off, searching for a way to ask what she wanted to know delicately. “Does the name Milbert sound familiar to you?” 

Draco nodded. “Yeah. He’s a pretty well-known solicitor, actually. I think he used to work with Pansy’s family. He’s some kind of property lawyer.” 

“Well, does it ring any other bells?” 

“What kind?” 

“Like, was he...” 

“Was he what?” 

“Was he...you know...” 

His face broke into shock and he moved to smooth his sleeve over his left forearm, but then he laughed, shaking his head. “You want to know if he’s a Death Eater, don’t you?”

She nodded. 

“Not to my knowledge. He might be? It’s not like I’ve met everyone.” 

Hermione lowered her voice instinctively, hit with the fear that unknown ears might be listening. “I think Bartleby’s up to something. There’s something really suspicious about him.” 

“Bartleby?” Draco shook his head. “Bartleby’s not a Death Eater. Bartleby’s a nobody. My mother was really concerned about hiring him, actually. He’d got a really unimpressive track record, his entire background is estate divisions. But then his luck turned, I guess, and the past two years he’s been making a really big name for himself as a trial lawyer.” 

“Two years? You mean starting during the war?” 

Draco shook his head. “He’s not a Death Eater, he never was. He’s just a barrister. His wife invented the probity-probe and let the Ministry keep buying it during the war, if you’re looking for some kind of connection to evil; but she wasn’t a Death Eater either.”

Hermione frowned, biting her lip. 

“What made you think he was?” Draco moved toward her on the couch, interested. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” said Hermione. “At least, nothing really. It could all be in my head.” 

“But there are loads of brilliant things in your head.” 

His words threw her off her rhythm momentarily—it was one of the nicest compliments she’d ever received, and his eyes seemed abnormally bright and gem-like just now. But she managed to sit up a little straighter and talk matter-of-factly through it. 

“Sometimes he looks different,” she said. “Like this one morning, he came running in and went home early and he sounded a little different and he looked different.” 

“Different how?” Said Draco, looking puzzled. 

“He had a unibrow.” 

“That’s not very different.” 

“Well, he was shorter, too,” said Hermione. “I dunno. I could still recognize him as him, but…” 

“Well, what else?” Draco prompted her. 

Hermione laid her arm across the back of the couch, noticing belatedly that Draco already had his elbow propped there and her fingertips were now mere inches from his hand. “So don’t get me wrong, I’m good at my job. But sometimes…randomly…I’m suddenly really, _really_ good at my job.” She told him about the time the Azkaban liaison had given her everything she’d requested and more, even though she’d wound up yelling at him and storming off, and about a more recent time when she’d been struggling as usual with a difficult bit of inheritance paperwork and then was suddenly able to complete it perfectly with no trouble. 

“It just sounds like you’re learning,” said Draco. She must have made some kind of look because he quickly added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dismiss your case. What else?” 

She told him about Kingsley’s rapid change of heart. “And then there’s Milbert,” she said. “Now I can’t get close to Bartleby at all. Milbert’s always there, and he seems to want to destroy my social life, too.” 

Draco laughed. “But law firms are notorious for long hours. Maybe he’s just a typical solicitor.” 

Hermione shook her head. “He definitely wouldn’t want me talking to you about this. Don’t you find it just the teensiest bit suspicious that one of his paper airplanes arrived just as I was sitting down to talk with you? It was probably some giant assignment to pull me away.” 

Draco tried to play this off, too, but she could tell he was a little swayed. 

“Okay, so say Bartleby’s a former Death Eater,” he said. “What’s his game? What does he want?” 

“Rehabilitation,” said Hermione, surprising herself. “He wants me on the Death Eater cases so I can make his clients look better. He looks better standing next to me. It lends credibility to his firm.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “God, I sound like Ron.” 

Draco was taken aback. “How do you feel about that?” He asked, tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to speak. 

She looked down at the couch and drew her hand back onto her lap, feeling like she’d had some kind of breakthrough that had left her marooned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Used, a little. Proud, that I stand for something they can’t get themselves. Dirty, somewhat.” She shrugged. “But he’s mostly got me working on property law with Milbert, anymore. I don’t get it. I was hired to work on criminal cases.” 

It took Draco a moment to speak; he seemed to be considering his words carefully. “That’s not why I like spending time with you,” he said. “I can take care of my reputation myself. I just like your company.” 

She looked at him, surprised. “Thank you,” she said. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m using you,” said Draco. “My family isn’t, either. My father was very reluctant to let you work on his case, to be frank. If anyone’s trying to, it’s Bartleby.” 

Hermione sighed. “I think I’ve been coming to that for a while.” 

She felt the couch creak as Draco slid closer to her. “Do you want to quit?” 

She shook her head, still messing with her robes. “He’s up to something, I can feel it. He’s got some secret client he won’t let me know about. And I think he’s doping people with potions. He gave something to the Minister that made him act differently. I’ve got to stay close to him until I find out what’s going on.” 

Draco’s eyes lit up. “Can I help you? Please?” 

She almost laughed, the eagerness in his eyes lifting her. “For sure,” she said. 

He pulled down his fist in a victory gesture. _“Yes._ What can I do?” 

“Keep your eyes open,” she said, thinking things up as she went. “Let me know if you find any suspicious connections among Milbert and Bartleby’s associates. Tell me if you can figure out who this mysterious client is.” 

He nodded, pretending to jot them all down. 

“And stick by me,” she said, a swooping feeling racing through her stomach. “Protect me from Milbert’s stupid paper airplanes.” 

He lifted his wand threateningly. “You got it, ma’am.” 

“And don’t call me ma’am.” 

He put down his wand. “Sorry.” 

Hermione lifted up her book, feeling suddenly much better about her life. The world seemed brighter and clearer now. “But our first task is getting through these chapters.”


End file.
